^jtiT 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

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http://www.archive.org/details/choicedialoguescOOshoe 


Choice  Dialogues 

Ji  Collection  of 

Jiew  and  Original  Dialogues 
for  School  and  Social 
Entertainment 


Edited  by 

Mrs.  J.  W.  SHOEMAKER 


Philadelphia 

The  Penn  Publishing  Company 


14927r? 


Bntered  accoi-ding  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1888,  by 

THE  NATIONAL  SCHOOL  OF  ELOCUTION  AND  OBATOET, 

In  tha  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  Washington,  D.  C. 


COPYBIGHT    1914    BY    MrS.   J.   W.   SHOEMAKER 


PREFACE, 


'^  To  meet  the  wants  of  an  increasing  public  demand 

^       has  been  the  object  of  the  preparation  of  this  volume. 

'        Many  of  tlie  excellent  dialogues  which  have  hitherto 

appeared  in  print  have  been  so  frequently  utilized,  that 

^^       the  call  for  something   new   has  become    loud  and 

urgent. 
J  In   procuring  material   for  the  book,  the   greatest 

o        care  has  been  taken  to  secure  a  widely  varied  range  of 
—       topics,  characters,  and  conditions ;  hence  there  will  be 
'^        found  that  which  is  suited  to  the  wants  of  the  little 
^       folks,  the  older  boys  and  girls,  and  adults. 
^  Some  are  grave  in  character,  some  sprightly,  some 

-^       broadly  humorous,  adapted  alike  to  the  needs  of  the 
(?-        home,  the  school-room,  the   literary   society,  and  the 
social  circle. 

With  such  dialogues  as  are  more  difficult  in  stage 
setting,  or  in  which  the  manifestations  of  character  are 
not  clearly  defined,  full  explanations  have  been  given 
In  order  to  facilitate  the  work  of  preparation. 


ui 


iV  PREFACE. 

Every  appearance  of  irreverance  and  every  sugges* 
tion  of  coarseness  has  been  carefully  excluded,  so  that 
the  moral  tone  of  the  book,  no  less  than  its  literary  and 
artistic  merits,  may  secure  for  it  that  high  place  in  the 
public  estimation  which  it  has  been  our  conscientioua 
aim  in  its  preparation  to  reach. 

Mrs.  J.  W.  Shoemaker. 


CONTENTS. 


Rugg^s&Co. Charles Stok^  Wayne,.  1 

The  Gods  in  Council Emily  Radcliff, U 

Almost  a  Mormon, Charles  Stokes  Wav^e,  .  22 

Bridget's  investment E.  C.  and  L.  J.  Eook,  .  29 

„  ,.T  „  „  .  Elizabeth  Lloyd, ....  37 

Ten  Famous  Women, ■^"-"  "  '         „  ,, 

.  Emma  Sophie  Stillwell,  44 

Genevra, ,, 

^     .    *■      f  ,oPH7»  Adeline  B.  Avery, .      .  51 

Contesting  for  a  Prize „,    .   „  ra 

^^.^    ^  Mrs.  S.  L.  Oberholtte', .  56 

The  Spirit  of  Liberty, ^'^'"  "^ 

.  .  Charles  Slakes  Wi  v«e, .  61 

Trapped, ,  „  _, 

■.r  *•   »-.  ...  R-  J-  Burdens,    ....  71 

The  Railway  Matinee -"•  „ 

^  „         „..  ...  Mrs.  S.  L.  OberhtUlzer, .     /4 

A  Changed  Housewife ^ 

,   „,    ,».  ...  E.  C.  Rook o2 

Our  Country's  Wealth. 

„  ,.  ...  Charles  Stokes  Mayne, .  85 

The  Best  Policy ^  „.  „  q. 

,    „._  .  .  .  .  Lilian  F.  Mells 94 

ancle  Morton's  Gift, ,  „  ^  „    u  mR 

.  .L.J.  and  E.  C.  Rook, .  105 

The  Opening  Address .    ^,     .  „  mo 

^  ,_  „  jfrs.  5.  i.  OberhoUzer,  .  109 

Have  a  Shine,  Sah? ,      „,  m 

,     „.  ^,  .  .  .  CTiacfes  Stofces  n a2/n«, .  114 

Bold  for  the  Right, ^„^  r.„„^  m 

i.  /.  and  E.  C  Rook,  .  117 

The  Art  Critic .  ,„, 

...  Morris  Harnson,  ...  1^1 

Brave  Boston  Boys, 

£;ta  H.  Clement,    ...  125 

Justice .  .  •••••• .■.'**.'.  EUa  U.  Oement,        .  .  131 

A  Christmas  Eve  Adventure. ^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^_  ^  ^^^ 

Double  Play   .  . '  "  ^,.^^.^^^    _  ^  ,46 

The  Ghost  of  crooked  Lane, ^^^  ^_  ^  ^^^^^^^^^^^_  ^^^ 

Going  to  the  Dentists Esther  Wilscm  Bro^m, .  160 

•r^^^^'^'" .Eaan.Clement 172 

Signing  the  Pledge     ... •         ,  Charles  Stokes  Way^. .  17« 

Joe  Fleming's  Thanksgiving 


SCHOOL  AND  SOCIAL  DIALOGUES 


BUGGLES  &  CXX 


CHABACTEBS. 

Mb.  Nicholas  Ruggles,  head  of  the  flrm. 
Habbt  Mitchell,  an  office-boy. 
Ragged  Tom,"  the  applewoman's  son. 

i8CBNE.~^n  office;  table  in  the  centre,  with  pens,  ink,  and 
paper  \ipon  it;  chair  behind  it,  also  several  chairs  about 
right  and  left  of  stage.  Marry  Mitchell  discovered  seated 
on  corner  of  table  swinging  his  legs  and  holding  half  a 
dozen  letters  in  his  hand. 

Harry  (soliloquizing  as  he  looks  over  the  addresses  on  tho 
letters). — Ruggles  &  Co.,  29  Bond  Street ;  Messrs.  Nicholaa 
Ruggles  &  Co.;  Ruggles  &  Co.;  Mr.  Nicholas  Rugglea 
One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six  letters  this  morning  for  th« 
firm.  That's  for  us ;  but  then,  you  see,  I  don't  open  thefirm'a 
letters.  No,  the  senior  partner  does  that — Mr.  Ruggles, 
that  ia  I'm  only  the  Co.  I  must  be  the  Co.,  for  there  ia 
no  othei  Co.  about.  Mr.  Ruggles  says  that  those  two  let- 
ters, that "  C  "  and  that  little  "  o"  at  the  end  of  the  line,  add 
greatly  to  the  effect  on  the  general  public — give  weight  to 
the  hou.se,  and  all  that,  you  know.  He  says  he  don't  mind 
my  calling  myself  the  Co.,  provided  it  don't  make  me  too 
proud  to  be  office-boy  and  sweep  out  the  place,  build  the 
fire,  wind  the  clock,  and  run  the  errands.  Well,  I  don't 
^hink  it  will.     I  don't  mind  working.     Mr.  Buggies  says  U 

7 


0  BUGQOS)  &.  Co. 

1  work  very  hard  and  am  a  good  boy  and  save  my  money, 
some  day  I  may  be  the  Co.  in  earnest,  and  share  the  firm's 
profits.  And  they're  big,  they  are.  [Referring  to  the  letterSf 
which  he  still  holdsJ]  These  are  orders,  every  one  of  'em- 
orders  for  our  watches — the  best  watches  made  for  the 
money.  "  Warranted  to  keep  seventieth  meridian  time 
80  well  that  it  can  never  get  away  from  you."  That's  what 
Mr.  Ruggles  says.  He's  promised  that  I  can  have  one 
when  I  save  up  ten  dollars — have  a  real,  genuine,  eigh« 
teen  dollar,  wholesale,  silver  hunting-case,  patent  lever, 
fiill-jeweled,  stem-winder  when  I  save  ten  dollars ;  and 
I've  got  nine  dollar  and  fifty  cents  now.  Fifty  cents  more, 
only  fifty  cents,  Harry   Mitchell,   and   you   can  carry  a 

watch  in  your  pocket  that  will .    [Footsteps  are  heard 

outside.  Harry  springs  down  from  table.  Straightens  pens, 
etc.,  and  places  letters  under  a  paper-weight.']  It's  Mr.  Rug- 
gles, I  suppose.  Wonder  what's  bringing  him  down  so 
early  this  morning  !  Fully  fifteen  minutes  ahead  of  time, 
and  he's  usually  as  punctual  to  the  minute  as  the  hands 
on  the  watches  he  sells. 

(Enter  Bagged  Tom,  shivering,  and  looking  pale,  hungry, 
and  generally  forlorn.) 

Tom  (rubbing  his  hands). — By  jimiuy,  aint  it  cold, 
though !  Can  I  come  in  awhile  and  git  warm  ? 

Harry. — Can  you  ?  Why  of  course  you  can.  Take  a  seat 
o  rer  the  register  and  toast  your  toes.  You  look  half  frozen, 
sure  enough. 

(Ragged  Tom  comes  forward,  seats  himself  on  »  ehair, 
99^d  hangs  his  feet  over  imaginary  register.) 

Tom. — That's  jolly,  that  is.  [Still  rubbing  his  hands.]  I 
kaven't  been  warm  for  two  days,  I  haven't,  and  poor 
mother  is  almost  frozen  to  death  up  in  our  old  attic  1 
wish  I  could  take  some  of  this  heat  home  to  her. 


BUGQLES  &  CO.  1 

Harry. — I  wish  you  could,  for  we've  enough  and  to  spare 
here,  I'm  sure.    What's  your  name  ? 

Tom. — Ragged  Tom,  they  call  me.  Mother's  name's 
Mrs.  ]\Iackiu.  Kitty — Old  Kitty — some  people  call  her. 
She  used  to  sell  apples  down  here  in  the  doorway  of  thia 
building  till  she  got  down  with  the  rheumatism.  Since 
then  she  hasn't  been  able  to  get  out.  Now  she's  got  the 
fever,  and  I'm  afraid  she's  going  to  die  ;  it's  so  cold  up  in 
our  garret. 

Harry. — Why  don't  you  move  ? 

Tom. — It  would  kill  her  to  move  her,  they  say,  and  be- 
sides, we  haven't  any  money — not  enough  to  get  a  fire  or  a 
crust  to  eat  even,  let  alone  pay  for  a  doctor.  We're  in  a 
bad  way,  we  are.  I've  tried  so  hard  for  work,  too,  but  I 
can't  get  it,  and  when  I  beg  I  get  cursed  at  and  laughed  at, 
and  told  to  be  off  and  work  for  money,  as  other  boys  have 
to  do. 

Harry. — I'm  sorry  for  you,  Tom. 

Tom. — Are  you  ? 

Harry. — That  I  am  1  And  I  want  to  help  you. 

Tom. — Oh !  will  you  ?  If  you  could  only  save  mother's  lifh 

Harry. — I  will  if  I  can.  I'm  not  rich,  Tom,  but  I've 
got  enough  to  get  you  a  fire  and  something  to  eat,  and 
enough  to  pay  for  a  doctor  to  see  your  mother  and  give 
her  some  medicine.  Kitty  and  I  used  to  be  great  friends, 
we  did,  when  she  kept  the  apple-stand,  and  many  a  timo 
she's  given  me  an  apple  when  I  was  hungry  and  hadn't 
a  cent  to  pay  for  it.  I'm  not  going  to  forget  her  now, 
[Aside,']  No,  not  if  I  don't  get  my  watch  for  ten  yeara 
to  come,  I  won't. 

Tom  (jumping  tip  and  clapping  his  hands). — Oh  !  how 
good  you  are  I  And  have  you  really  got  money  to  do 
«llthi8? 


10  RUGGLES   &  CO. 

Harry. — I've  saved  up  a  little — nine  dollars  and  a 
half.  It's  not  much,  to  be  sure,  but  what  there  is  yc^u 
and  your  mother  shall  have  it,  every  peuny  I  I  waa 
going  to  buy  a  watch. 

Tom. — I'll  pay  you  some  day.  If  mother  only  gets 
well  I  can  black  boots  or  sell  papers  or  something,  and 
111  give  you  all  I  earn  till  I've  paid  you. 

Harry. — Every  minute  is  precious,  isn't  it?  Mr. 
Ruggles  has  my  money  locked  up  in  the  drawer  there 
or  you  should  have  it  now,  Tom,  But  then  he  won't  be 
long  coming.  If  you're  warm  enough,  suppose  you  run 
oflf  after  a  doctor  and  send  him  to  your  mother.  Tell  him 
that  Ruggles  &  Co. — Nicholas  Ruggles  &  Co.,  that  is — 
wish  him  to  go.     I'll  foot  the  bill. 

Tom. — What  is  your  name  ? 

Harry. — I'm  the  Co. — Harry  Mitchell,  they  call  me— » 
but  you  needn't  say  that  to  the  doctor.  Do  you  see,  Tom  7 
Hurry  off  now,  and  then  come  straight  back  and  I'll  have 
some  money  for  you. 

Tom. — You're  awful  good,  you  are,  Harry  Mitchell,  Mr. 
Co.,  or  whatever  your  name  is,  and  mother  and  I  won't 
forget  you,  we  won't. 

(Exit  Tom  hurriedly.  Harry  resumes  his  place  on  tha 
fiorner  of  the  table  and  begins  soliloquizing  again.') 

Harry. — Well,  I'm  not  quite  so  near  the  watch  as  J 
thought  I  was;  but  then  I  couldn't  see  that  little  chap 
starve,  and  his  mother — dear  old  Kitty,  who  has  been  so 
kind  to  me — die  just  because  I  wanted  to  be  a  swell  and 
carry  a  ticker.  Oh  !  no.  Maybe  I'm  a  bad  boy  I  Maybe  I 
am,  but  I'm  not  so  bad  as  that,  not  by  a  large  majority  I'm 
not.  {^Noise  of  footsteps  outside  again.'\  Ah,  here  cornea 
Mr.  Ruggles  for  certain.  [Jumps  down  from  table  just  a* 
Mr.  Ruggles  enters.'] 


BUOOLES  &  GO.  11 

Mr.  Buggies. — Ah,  there  you  are !  I  want  you  to  go  a» 
erraud  immediately.  Get  your  hat  quick  uow,  and  be  off 
Here's  a  note  [taking  letter  from  Im  ■pocket'\  which  must  bft 
delivered  to  Mr.  Kubinsou  dowu  in  the  Exchange  buildiug 
before  uiue  o'clock,  aud  it's  five  minutes  of  that  time  now. 
Off  you  go  !  IHarrg  jncks  up  Jm  hat  from  a  chair,  takes  the 
letter,  and  stops  in  front  of  Mr.  Haggles,  who  has  seated  himr- 
self  at  the  table.^ 
Harry. — Before  I  go,  sir,  won't  you  please  give  me — 
Ml  B. — I'll  give  you  nothing.  Off  with  you,  sir;  quick 
now,  aud  not  another  word. 

{Hari~ij puts  on  his  hat  and  makes  his  exit.) 
Mr.  B. — What  on  earth  did  that  boy  want  ?  Maybe  I 
was  a  little  harsh  with  him,  but  business  is  business,  and 
there  was  no  time  to  lose.  Wanted  his  nine  dollars  and 
a  half  probably.  Got  tired  of  saving  to  buy  a  watch,  I 
fuppose,  and  wants  to  invest  in  a  half  dozen  dime  novels, 
a  revolver,  a  dirk-knife,  and  go  West.  Just  like  a  boy. 
They're  all  the  same ;  though  I  did  think  Harry  was  a 
little  better  than  the  average.  [Begins  opening  his  letters. 
Opens  each  in  turn,  glances  at  them,  and  spreads  them  out 
beside  him.  Takes  up  pen  and  commences  to  write.  Aa 
he  does  so,  the  door  opens  and  Bagged  Tom  pokes  his 
head  in.  Mr.  Buggies  looks  up-l  No,  we  don't  want  any 
ttatches ! 

Tom. — I'm  not  selling  matches,  sir ;  I'm — 
Mr.  B. — Shoe  blacking,  shoe  laces,  needles,  pins,  button- 
fasteners,  soap,  lead  pencils,  etc.,  all  the  same;  we  don't 
want  any. 

Tom  {coming  further  in). — I  haven't  anything  to  sell,  sir, 
I  came  to — 

Mr.  B. — Came  to  beg,  did  you  ?  Well,  we  don't  give  to 
fceggars.     We  belong  to  several  Soup  Societies  and  all  oui 


12  RUQGLES   &  CO. 

money  for  charity  goes  that  way.  Get  out  now.  Don*t  yon 
Bee  I'm  busy. 

Tom. — But,  sir,  I  was  to  call  back  to  see  the  boy — Co, 
he  called  himself,  or  something  like  that. 

Mr.  R. — Oh!  you  w'ant  to  see  the  Company  do  you?  Hal 
ha  I  That's  a  good  one.  And  what  do  you  want  to  see  the 
little  chap  for,  eh  ? 

Tom, — Please,  sir,  he  promised  to  pay  for  a  doctor  for 
my  mother,  who  is  sick,  and  to  get  us  some  coal  and  some- 
thing to  eat. 

Mr.  B. — Who  promised  you  all  this? 

Tovi. — The  boy  who  called  himself  Co.  I  think  he  said 
some  people  call  him  Harry. 

Mr.  B. — Ah  I  ha !  So  he's  going  to  spend  his  savings 
on  you,  is  he  ?  Well,  if  you're  worthy  of  it  I  don't  know 
but  that  I  admire  his  generosity.  You  know  he  bad  saved 
that  money  to  buy  himself  a  watch,  don't  you? 

Tom. — He  said  something  like  that,  sir ;  but  indeed  I'll 
pay  it  all  back  to  him — every  cent — as  soon  as  I  can  get  work 

Mr.  B: — And  you  want  work,  do  you  ? 

Tom. — Oh  !  yes,  sir ;  very  much. 

Mr.  B. — And  would  you  be  a  good  boy,  and  att^id  to 
Ousiness  if  I  gave  you  a  position  here? 

Tovi.—Oh !  wouldn't  I,  though  I 

(Sounds  of  footsteps  outside  again.) 

Mr.  B. — Sit  down  over  there  then,  and  keep  very  stiU 
while  I  attend  to  the  Co. 

(  Tom  sits  down.    Enter  Harry.) 

Mr.  B.  (sharply). — Come  here,  sir.  [^Harry  walks  to  side 
•/  table.']  So  you  have  determined  to  give  away  your  hard- 
earned  savings,  have  you? 

Harry. — I  thought  this  poor  boy  and  his  mother  Deeded 
k  Bo  much  more  than  I  did. 


RUGQLES  &  CO.  IS 

Mr.  R. — Very  well,  then,  you  shall  have  it ;  but  how 

about  your  watch  ? 

Harry. — Oh !  I  can  get  along  without  thatfora  timeyet,sir, 

Mr.  JR. — You  can,  can  you  ?  Well  I  think  differently. 
You  can't,  as  the  tail  end  of  this  firm,  get  along  without 
one.  To  tell  the  truth,  young  man,  I'm  not  altogether 
satisfied  with  you  as  an  errand  boy,  and  this  action  of 
yours  has  determined  me  to  relieve  you.  Your  services  aa 
errand  boy  are  no   jnger  required. 

Harry. — O  Mr  Ruggles  1  I  hope  you  won't — 

Mr.  R. — Not  a  word,  sir.  I  have  spoken.  Your  place 
i's  already  filled.  That  youth  on  the  chair  there  is  to  be 
your  successor. 

Harry. — Am  I  discharged  then,  Mr.  Ruggles? 

Mr.  R. — Discharged!  Not  a  bit  of  it,  my  boy;  not  a 
bit  of  it.  I  wouldn't  think  of  discharging  a  lad  with  a 
heart  as  big  as  yours.  You  will  be  a  member  of  the  firm 
in  earnest  some  day,  Harry.  For  the  present,  you  are  to 
be  my  clerk.  You  write  a  good  hand,  and  you're  getting 
too  big  to  run  errands.  As  I  said,  however,  you  can't  get 
along  without  a  watch ;  so  I'm  going  to  give  you  one.  And 
I'm  going  to  do  something  for  you  [turning  to  Ragged 
Tom'].  You  had  better  stop  with  your  mother  until  she  is 
better  and  then  you  can  come  and  take  Harry's  place. 
Tell  me  where  you  live,  and  Ruggles  &  Co. — that's  Harry 
and  I — will  fix  you  up.  [Taking  hills  from  his  pockef] 
Meanwhile,  take  this — it's  the  junior  member's  money— 
and  see  that  your  mother  is  comfortable. 

(  Tom  takes  money  and  Harry,  smiling,  begins  to  tliank  Mr, 
Ruggles.) 

Harry. — O  sir!  you  are  too  good,  Mr.  Ruggles.  I 
tbank  you  more  than  I — 

Tom. — And  I  thank  you  too,  sir! 


M  THE  GODS  IN   COUNCIL. 

Mr.  B. — Never  mind  the  thanks,  boys.    Wish  the  firn 
success,  that's  all  I 

Tom  and  Harry  (in  chorus). — We  do!   We  do ! 
Mr.  Buggies. — Give  three  cheers  for  Ruggles  &  Co.  I 
To7n  and  Harry  {shouting). — Hurrah  I  Hurrah  I  Hurrah 
Success  to  Ruggles  &  Co.  I 

[Curtain.] 

Charles  Stokes  Waynr 


THE  GODS  IN  COUNCIL. 

CHARACTERS  AND  COSTUMES. 

ItJPlTEB,  white  chiton,  purple  drapery,  golden  staff. 

Juno,  white  chiton,  cardinal  drapery,  short  golden  staff,  and  crown. 

Mars,  white  chiton,  cardinal  drapery,  helmet,  shield,  staff  in  form  of  spear 

all  three  silver. 
Neptune,  green  drapery,  a  silver  trident  and  crown. 
Pluto,  black  chiton,  yellow  drapery,  wooden  scepter,  yellow  crown. 
Minerva,  white  chiton,  blue  drapery,  silver  helmet,  shield,  and  spear. 
Apollo,  white  chiton,  blue  drapery,  golden  lyre. 
Vulcan,  white  chiton,  black  drapery,  hammer. 
Vesta,  white  chiton,  white  drapery. 
Diana,  cream-colored  drapery,  silver  bows  and  arrows,  with  quiver  at  hei 

back. 
Ceres,  white  chiton,  pink  drapery,  crown  of  cereals  on  her  head,  a  lighted 

torch  in  her  hand. 
Mercury,  long  gray  stockings,  short  gray  drapery  streaming  behind  hkn, 

winged  cap  and  sandals,  caduceus. 

(Shawls  can  be  used  to  good  effect  in  the  drapery,  while  shields,  spears,  etc, 
ian  be  made  of  wood  or  pasteboard  and  covered  with  gold  or  silver  paper.* 

{Enter  Jupiter  and  Mercury  from  one  side,  and  Juno  from 
Ihe  other.) 

Juno  (addressing  Jupiter). — My  lord,  do  the  gods  assem- 
ble to-day  in  council  ? 

Jupiter  (turning  to  Mercury). — Mercury,  go  thou  through 
the  corridors  of  Olympus  and  summon  the  gods  to  council 


IHE    GODS    IN    COUNCIL.  J^ 

(jMercury  hows  and  flies  to  do  his  bidding.  Enter  some  oj 
the  deities  at  one  door,  some  at  the  other,  and  group  themselves 
about  Jupiter,  who  is  seated  on  his  throne.) 

Jupiter. — Give  ear,  all  ye  gods  and  goddesses,  while  I 
declare  the  thought  within  my  breast.  Let  none  of  either 
sex  presume  to  sit  in  this  last  divine  council  of  the  gods 
without  broad  ideas,  piercing  thought,  grave  emotions  and 
eloquent  words. 

Now,  what  shall  be  the  issue  of  the  present  state  of  af- 
fairs  in  heaven  and  among  mortals?  This  is  the  question : 
Shall  the  gods  try  to  regain  their  former  relations  to  man 
and  be  worshiped  throughout  the  earth  or  not  ? 

Ye  dwellers  of  the  sky,  in  answering  this  question,  firsl 
consider  the  great  achievements  of  man  incumbered  by  the 
dark  clay  of  the  earth,  and  then  the  al)ility  of  the  gods  in 
the  freedom  of  space. 

Know  ye  now,  that  I  shall  weigh  your  thoughts  in  the 
"  scale  of  justice,"  and  as  the  argument  goes,  so  shall  be  the 
eternal  conclusion  of  affairs. 

(Turning  to  Juno.)  What  think  you, most  wise  goddesi 
and  queen  of  the  heavens? 

J%mo. — As  queen  of  all  the  gods  and  mistress  of  heaven 
and  earth,  I  would  regain  my  former  power.  It  would  be 
my  greatest  pleasure,  as  of  old,  to  guard  woman  against 
tyranny  and  aid  her  in  the  assertion  of  her  rights.  I  would 
crown  her  untiring  efforts,  made  through  the  long  cen- 
turies,  with  victory,  participating  in  her  final  triumph. 
The  golden  apple,  though  bestowed  upon  another,  would  no 
longer  excite  my  envy.  Because  of  man's  increased  ap- 
preciation of  the  talents  and  ability  of  woman,  my  powers 
as  a  goddess  would  no  longer  be  undervalued,  and'  all  cause 
for  jealousy  would  cease. 
i^hito. — Ye  gods, ''  great  in  action  and  in  council  wise," 


16  THE  GODS  IN  COUKCIL. 

once  was  I  dire  monarch  in  the  kingdom  of  the  lost,  bul 
since  the  usurpation  of  my  throne  the  cry  of  the  oppressed 
sounds  to  mine  ear  from  under  the  opjiressor's  fiery  heel. 
Their  cry  doth  rend  my  heart,  and  shall  I  idly  listen  to 
their  wail  ? 

By  Styx !  I  mean  this  tyrant's  reign  shall  end ;  and  the 
fast  increasing  subjects  of  Hades  shall  rise  to  welcome 
Pluto's  just  and  lawful  reign.     Awake,  O  Gods! 

"  Why  would  ye  bid  to  shun  the  coming  fight? 
And  would  ye  move  to  base,  inglorious  flight? 
Know  ye,  'tis  not  honest  in  your  soul  to  fear." 

In  time  of  old  we  reigned  supreme,  and  all  were  subject 
to  our  power ;  and  shall  we  sleep  while  puny  man  with  his 
inventions  of  these  latter  days  defies  our  might? 

Up  then,  ye  gods,  and  with  united  strength  we  will  re- 
gain the  kingdoms  that  rightfully  are  ours. 

Neptune. — Most  high  and  mighty  Jupiter,  who  alone  of 
all  these  is  greater  than  I,  it  is  to  thee  I  address  myargu- 
ment  on  this  grave  subject. 

Three  thousand  years  ago  the  oceans  and  rivers  were 
mine.  The  mountains  and  forests  trembled  as  I  walked. 
With  a  blow  of  my  trident  I  raised  islands  out  of  the  deep, 
and  caused  earthquakes  at  my  pleasure. 

But,  Jupiter,  my  old  haunts  are  broken  up  ;  the  whales 
and  dolphins  no  longer  gambol  about  me ;  my  daughters 
are  driven  from  their  caves  and  grottoes.  The  discerning 
intellect  of  man  has  found  the  history  of  all  our  former 
greatness  in  natural  laws.  The  Inmans,  the  Allans,  and 
the  Cunarders  plow  the  mighty  ocean  with  no  thought  of 
Poseidon  to  aid  their  swiftness,  and  no  fear  of  his  wrath, 
tn  view  of  all  this,  I  find 


THE    GODS    IN    COUNCIL.  17 

"All  things  invite  to  peaceful  counsels  and  a  settled  8tAt« 
Of  order.     Now  in  safety  best  we  may 
Compose  our  present  evils,  with  regard 
Of  what  we  are  and  were;  dismissing  quite 
All  thoughts  of  war." 

Mars.— Great  Jupiter,  why  need  I  wish  for  the  power 
and  rule  of  old,  when  I  stop  and  reflect  that  in  my  youth 
nearly  the  whole  ambition  of  the  people  was  to  prepare 
for  war.  A  Spartan  entered  his  public  career  as  a  soldier 
at  the  age  of  seven,  and  continued  such  until  he  was  sixty  ; 
but  now,  how  is  it  ?  Instead  of  gaining  fame  by  excelling 
in  brave  deeds  and  daring  exploits,  they  seek  to  build  up 
their  fame  Avith  what  they  call  the  finer  arts,  such  as  music, 
painting,  and  poetry.  When  they  do  enter  into  conflict,  it 
is  not,  as  it  used  to  be,  power  against  power,  but  skill  against 
skill ;  by  the  invention  of  powder  the  weakest  man  in  the 
whole  army  can  put  into  execution  the  most  cruel  man- 
destroyer  ever  invented. 

No,  Jupiter,  with  these  conditions  of  aflJairs,  I  could  do 
nothing,  and  would  not  even  wish  to  have  again  the  power 
and  rule  I  once  held  over  the  kingdom  of  mankind. 

Minerva. — 0  Father  Jove  and  all  ye  blessed  ones  who 
live  forever,  let  our  sceptered  King  be  gracious,  mild,  and 
merciful  toward  the  mortal  race.  We  know  thy  power  ig 
not  to  be  withstood,  yet  are  we  moved  with  pity  for  the 
people  made  in  our  own  image.  Such  has  been  their  ad- 
vancement in  the  art  and  science  of  war,  that,  presumptu- 
ously relying  on  their  unaided  wisdom,  they  will  not  fear 
a  combat  even  with  celestial  beings — a  combat  which  to 
ihem  must  end  in  an  evil  fate. 

Why  arouse  them  to  their  own  destruction,  O  son  of 
rtaturn  I  since  then,  alasl  would  there  be  none  left  to  pay  uf 


18  THE   GODS   IN   COUNCIL, 

homage?  Let  us  rather  trust  that  misguided  man,  led  by  hi> 
convictions  and  inherited  sense  of  what  is  due  to  us  as  ira 
moFtal  beings,  may  of  his  own  free  will  return  to  his  formei 
allegiance  and  worship.  This  is  the  counsel  of  Minerva 
once  in  men's  eyes  the  queen  of  wisdom,  great  and  power- 
ful, and  adored  as  the  patroness  and  teacher  of  all  just  and 
scientific  warfare,  the  instructress  of  every  skillful  artist. 

Vtdcan. — So  long  have  we  rested  peacefully  from  oui 
cares,  I  do  not  desire  to  again  be  placed  upon  earth  to  repeat 
the  toils  and  labors  which  it  was  my  lot  to  undergo.  We 
have  reigned  supreme  as  gods  of  the  earth ;  we,  the  mighty 
have  fallen ;  we  are  cast  from  our  S2:)heres  and  only  war 
and  desolation  can  restore  us. 

O,  valiant  gods  and  goddesses  of  excellency,  brave  and 
faithful  to  the  last ;  though  overpowered,  yet  we  are  tri- 
umphant, for  our  honor  will  never  die.  Blest  and  glorious 
be  thy  name  and  race,  O  brave  and  honored  Jupiter !  I 
am  wearied  with  the  anvil  and  hammer,  so  long  have  I 
wielded  the  strong  and  mighty  strokes  that  forged  the 
heavy  thunderbolts  of  Jove,  and  now  I  long  for  rest. 

Vesta. — I  am  Vesta,  the  home  goddess.  I  had  ever  a 
pure  and  uplifting  influence  on  the  soul  of  man,  and  every 
bearthstone  was  consecrated  to  my  worship.  I  would  that 
[  had  my  power  back  again,  for  then  would  I  keep  men 
From  all  evil !  I  would  strive  to  teach  them  the  true  path 
3f  life  and  make  them  true  and  faithful  to  their  duties  and 
loving  toward  all  mankind. 

Apollo. — All  powerful  Jupiter,  son  of  Saturn,  mightiest 
limong  the  potentates  in  this  most  august  assembly  of  the 
^ods  and  goddesses,  Phcebus  Apollo  speaks  in  favor  of  war. 
Let  us  ari?e  in  our  might  and  compel  these  weak  and  pre- 
sumptuous people  to  acknowledge  our  supremacy. 

There  was  a  time,  most  august  father,  when  men  were 


THE   GODS   IN   COUNCIU  IS 

tnuch  more  warlike  than  at  present,  that  one  of  their  moa( 
illustrious  poets  exclaimed,  "  Who  is  so  rash  as  to  resist  th« 
gods  ?"  It  is  in  the  power  of  the  gods  to  prove  that  thej 
have  indeed  been  rash. 

Let  Vulcan  forge  for  each  a  suit  of  armor,  and  whilst 
JMars  is  shaking  the  earth  with  his  thunder  and  thou  arl 
burling  thunderbolts  of  wrath  upon  their  heads,  the  rest 
of  the  gods  and  goddesses  will  descend  and  drive  them  al] 
into  the  dark  regions  of  Hades.  This  we  might  have  ac- 
complished long  ago  had  we  united  our  efforts.  There- 
fore let  us  not  delay,  but  descend  at  once,  for  Phoebug 
Apollo  will  never  tune  this  divine  lyre,  until  the  authority 
of  the  immortal  gods  and  goddesses  is  established  for- 
ever. 

Ceres. — O  blessed  of  heaven  I  thou  askest  Ceres  whethe< 
she  would  regain  her  former  rule. 

Once  all  earth  smiled  when  I  smiled,  and  wept  when  1 
wept;  but  what  availed  my  power?  Vainly  I  spread  mine 
earthly  fruits  and  flowers.  She  became  another's,  who  was 
once  my  child,  Persephone.  She  left  with  scarce  a  sigh 
her  mother's  care  to  hold  his  [gesture  toward  Pluto]  sceptre 
and  his  kingdom  share  I 

And  yet,  great  Jove  I  were  it  for  the  good  of  suffering 
humanity,  I  would  e'en  take  up  again  the  power  which 
QoW  is  only  mockery ;  but  men  are  not  as  they  were ;  they 
reap  wealth  by  preying  on  their  fellows.  If  I  should 
«eek  to  reward  the  virtuous  by  increasing  the  harvests, 
I  would  simply  expose  them  to  the  cupidity  and  rapi 
ciousness  of  the  wicked.  Therefore,  O  Father  Jove, 
am  for  peace. 

Diana. — During  ray  reign  upon  the  earth,  I  chose  the 
woods  for  my  dominion  and  the  chase  for  my  occupation 
'  delighted  to  wander  through  the  forests  attended  by  m] 


20 


THE   GODS  IN   COUNCIL. 


maidens,  where  grew  the  fennel  green  and  balm  and  golde* 
pines,  savory,  lattermint  and  columbines^  cool  parsley, 
basil  sweet  and  sunny  thyme. 

Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime  we  gathered 
in  the  dewy  morning.  Our  great  labor,  however,  was  to 
slay  the  wild  boar  and  wolves  which  infested  the  forests, 
and  which  were  the  much-dreaded  enemies  of  man. 

I  had  other  work  besides  that  of  a  huntress  to  perform, 
I  was  queen  of  the  moon,  and  nightly,  unobserved,  I  stole 
away  to  my  throne,  sending  my  clear,  silvery  rays  to  pierce 
the  darkness  of  the  earth,  and  by  the  light  of  my  bright 
tapers  I  often  saw  my  maidens  dancing  on  the  dewy 
grass. 

But,  during  the  hundreds  of  centuries  that  I  have  been 
absent  from  the  earth,  the  human  race  has  so  increased, 
both  in  numbers  and  power,  that  they  have  been  obliged 
to  fell  the  forests,  and  have  been  enabled  to  exterminate 
the  wild  beasts.  So  that  now  1  have  no  desire  to  return 
to  the  earth,  as  the  scenes  of  my  former  labors  have  been 
obliterated. 

Mercury. — Father  Jove,  although  but  the  messenger  of 
the  gods,  I  think  I  should  have  something  to  say  on  thia 
question. 

For  many  years  I  held  supreme  power  as  messenger,  but 
npw  I  feel  that  my  occupation  is  indeed  gone.  Now 
electricity  and  steam  outdistance  me,  and  I  wish  to  retire 
and  leave  puny  man,  as  he  has  been  here  styled,  in  full  pos- 
session. 

Therefore,  ye  gods,  let  us  not  attempt  to  regain  oui 
power,  but  retire  to  peace  and  everlasting  rest. 

Jupiter. — Gods  and  goddesses,  I  thank  you  for  the  vrise 
counsel  that  has  proceeded  from  your  lips;  but  for  my  own 
\hought,  I  may  say  this:  it  is  below  the  grandeur  and 


THE   GODS  IN   COUNCIL.  21 

greatness  of  the  gods  to  take  auy  offensive  stamd  againest 
the  iuhabitants  of  the  earth.  They  themselves  are  con- 
«cious  of  the  narrow  limits  of  their  ability  and  understand- 
ing. They  to-day  may  stand  in  defiance  of  all  that  is  noble 
and  higher  than  themselves,  but  the  hard  problems  of  life 
are  before  them,  and  as  soon  as  their  frail  natures  are  de- 
feated they  will  again  offer  sacrifices  at  the  altars  of  the 
immortal  gods,  hoping  for  guidance  and  strength. 

Therefore  I  declare  that  none  of  us  shall  make  any 
effort  to  regain  the  confidence  of  man.  You  may  now  re* 
turn  to  the  inactivity  which  you  have  followed  for  the  past 
•igUteen  hundred  years.    [Exit  all.'] 

Arranged  by  Emily  Radcuff. 


ALMOST    A    MORMON. 


ALMOST  A  MORMON. 

CHARACTERS. 

John  Manly,  a  Yankee,  resident  of  Salt  Lake  City. 

Me3.  Manly,  his  wife. 

Alice  Sinclair,  on  a  visit  to  Utah. 

Arthur  Mayton,  her  lover. 

Tommy,    ^ 

Sallie,      l  children  of  the  Manlys. 

Jerusha,  J 

Scene. — A  neatly  furnished  living  room.    Lounge  at  right, 
table  in  centre,  chairs  at  back ;  also  chair  and  two  stools  ai 
left.     Curtain  rises,  disclosing  Mrs.  Manly  bending  over 
Miss  Sinclair,  who  lies  upon  lounge  apparently  asleep.   Tom- 
mie,  Sallie  and  Jerusha  seated  on  chairs  and  stools  at  right. 
Mrs.  Manly. — There  now,  she's  asleep  !    Dear  me !  deai 
me!    How  innocent  she  looks,  to  be  sure!    To  thiuk  that 
she  should  want  to  come  here  aud  take  half  of  my  John's 
love  from  me  aud  his  children.      O   the  huzzy.      What 
a  mask  that  face  is !    No  wonder  she's  nervous  aud  fright- 
ened.   She  ought  to  be  nervous,  and  if  it  wasn't  she  is  so 
frail  and  delicate  looking  I'd  give  her  reason  to  be  fright- 
ened, too.    {^Turning  to  the  children.^    Ah,  my  little  dears! 
Aren't  you  ashamed  of  your  father  ?    To  thiuk  that  he  has 
so  far  forgotten  you  as  to  want  to  give  you  another  mother! 
As  if  one  mother  was  not  enough  to  scold  you  when  you 
are  naughty  and  to  pet  you  when  you  are  good.     Did  you 
want  another  mother,  my  dears  ? 
Children. — No,  ma'am  ! 

Mrs.  Manly. — Of  course  you  didn't,  and  he  ought  to  have 
considered  your  wishes  and  mine,  too.  Did  I  not  tell  him 
when  we  came  out  here  from  New  England  that  the  first 
thing  that  happened  he  would  be  adopting  these  Mormon 
ideas  and  practicing  polygamy  ? 


ALMOST   A   MORMOlf.  2? 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am ! 

Mrs.  Manly. — And  what  did  he  say  to  me?  Didn't  he 
tell  me  that  he  hated  the  very  idea  of  Mormouism ;  that  I 
was  all  the  wife  he  wanted,  and  too  much  sometimes,  and 
that  he  only  came  here  because  he  could  earn  more  money 
here  than  he  could  East.     Didn't  he  ? 

Children. — ^Yes,  ma'am ! 

Mrs.  Manly. — And  to  think  that  he  should  so  soon  for- 
get his  promises !  O  John  Manly !  John  Manly !  How 
could  you?  "Do  you  expect  me  to  love  her?"  I  asked 
him  when  he  brought  her  in  here  ten  minutes  ago,  and 
to  think  that  he  had  the  impudence  to  say,  "Yes!  yes! 
Be  good  to  her;  try  to  get  her  to  sleep.  She  is  very 
nervous ;  the  elder  frightened  her."  Did  you  hear  him  say 
that,  children?— "The  elder  frightened  her?" 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am ! 

Mrs.  Manly. — Do  you  know  what  that  meant? 

Children. — No,  ma'am  ! 

Mrs.  Manly. — It  meant  that  your  father  has  had  this 
woman  sealed  to  him — sealed  by  the  elders.  That  means 
married,  my  dears !  She  is  your  father's  wife  in  the  sight 
of  the  Mormons  just  as  much  as  I  am.  More  so,  I  guess, 
because  no  Mormon  elder  sealed  me,  but  a  good  dominie  in 
a  Connecticut  meeting  house,  and  these  Mormons  don't 
much  believe  in  dominies  any  more  than  the  dominies  be- 
lieve in  the  Mormons. 

Tommy. — Where  has  papa  gone  now  ?  To  get  anothei 
mother  for  us  ? 

Mrs.  Manly. — Well,  I  hope  not !  You  don't  suppose  he'j 
going  into  the  business  wholesale,  do  you?  Don't  yoB 
think  two  wives  are  enough  for  any  man,  and  more  thar 
enough  ? 

Children  (in  chorus). — Yes,  ma'am  I 


24  ALMOST    A    MORMOir. 

Mrs.  Manly. — Your  father,  my  dears,  has  gone  for  a 
doctor  for  his  second  wife,  I  suppose.  She's  going  to  begin 
to  run  up  doctor's  bills  already  and  rob  you  of  whai 
property  belongs  to  you.  You  don't  like  that  much,  do 
you? 

Children. — No,  ma'am! 

Mrs.  Manly. — No,  of  course  you  don't.  It  means  you 
must  go  without  any  new  shoes  this  spring.  Tommy  ;  and 
you,  Sallie,  must  do  without  the  new  frock  you  ought  to 
have ;  and  you,  Jerusha,  must  wear  that  faded  sunbonnet 
another  season. 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am ! 

Mrs.  Manly. — Oh  !    it's  terrible !  terrible  ! 
(^Miss  Sinclair  moves  on  lounge  and  opens  her  eyes.) 

Mrs.  Manly. — There,  my  dears,  your  new  mother  is 
waking.     Do  you  see  her  ? 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am  ! 

Mrs.  Manly  (to  Miss  Sinclair'). — Do  you  feel  better, 
madam  ? 

Miss  Sinclair  (raising  herself  on  her  elbow). — Madam, 
did  you  say  ?    I  am  no  madam,  I  am  Miss  Sinclair. 

Mrs.  Manly. — Excuse  me,  but  you  are  not.  Maybe  you 
were  an  hour  ago,  but  you're  sealed  now,  and  you're  a  miss 
no  longer. 

Miss  Sinclair  (jumping  up  suddenly). — O  do  not  say 
that !     Where  am  I  ? 

Mrs.  Manly. — At  your  husband's  home,  under  his  roof, 
in  the  care  of  his  wife ! 

Miss  Sinclair. — But  this  is  outrageous !    I — 

Mrs.  Manly. — What  is  outrageous  ?  You  don't  mean  to 
gay  this  home  is  not  good  enough  for  you !  If  it's  good 
enough  for  John  Manly's  first  wife,  it's  certainly  good  enough 
for  his  second. 


ALMOST  A   MORMON. 


2» 


3fiss  Sinclair. — But  I'm  uot  his  wife.    I'm— 

3Irs.  3Ianly. — You're  not  his  wife  !  [To  children.']  Do 
j^ou  heai-  that,  my  dears  ?  She's  not  his  wife !  Oh,  my 
dear  hidy,  you're  wandering;    your  mind's  affected. 

Miss  Sinclair. — No,  I  am  quite  rational.  I  had  a  severe 
Dervous  attack  just  now.  I'm  subject  to  them,  but  I've 
:juite  recovered,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  I  am  not  his 
wife.  I  was  visiting  the  Tabernacle  and  I  got  into  conversa- 
tion with  him.  I  said  I  thought  I  would  like  to  be  a 
Mormon.  I  said  it  just  in  a  joke,  you  know,  when  he 
threw  his  arras  about  me  and  said  I  should  be.  He  had 
looked  with  favor  upon  me,  and  lie  would  seal  me  unto  him. 

Mrs.  Manly. — O  the  villain!  John,  my  husband, 
how  could  you  so  far  forget  your  promises  of  loyalty  to 
Doe ! 

Miss  Sinclair. — But  he  could  not  marry  me  against  my 
will. 

Mrs.  Manly. — O  that  makes  no  difference.  The  Mor- 
mon elders  don't  mind  trifles  like  that.  There's  no  getting 
over  it.  You're  his  wife  and  no  mistake  and  I  suppose 
you'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it,  just  as  we  are  making 
the  best  of  it.    Won't  she,  children  ? 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am  ! 

Miss  Sinclair. — O  horror !  This  is  outrageous !  Is  there 
no  law  in  Utah  ? 

Mrs.  Manly. — The  law  of  the  Book  of  Mormon,  that's 
about  all. 

Mhs  Sinclair. — But,  my  friends,  I  have  an  uncle  at  the 
hotel,  and  a  cousin.  I  will  go  to  them  at  once.  \_Oetiing 
up  and  starting  for  door  ai  left-l 

Mrs.  Manly. — I  wish  I  could  aid  you  ;  but  I  daresay 
you  will  not  go  far.  Your  husband  has  probably  posted  a 
•CDtinel  outside  of  the  door.    Don't  you  think  f\>,  -ihildren? 


26  ALMOST    A    MORMON. 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am ! 

Miss  Sinclair. — But  I  shall  try !  There  is  no  harm  ia 
trying.    O  I  must  escape! 

{_Miss  Sinclair  is  about  to  go  out  when  there  is  a  knock  at 
the  door,  L.  She  starts  back  in  affright  and  sinks  into  a 
chair.) 

Mrs.  Manly. — Who  on  earth  is  that  ?  [  Ooing  to  door 
and  opening  if] 

{Enter  Arthur  Mayton.") 

Arthur. — Is  this  where  Mr.  Manly  lives  ? 

Mrs.  Manly. — Yes,  sir. 

Arthur. — And  is  this  Mrs.  Manly? 

Mrs.  Manly. — One  of  'em,  sir. 

Arthur. — I  have  come  to — 

Miss  Sinclair  (starting  up). — O  Arthur!    Arthur! 

Arthur  (pushing  past  Mrs.  Manly). — Alice,  my  darling  I 
I  am  so  glad  to  find  you.  \_Is  about  to  embrace  her  when 
Mrs.  Manly  speaks.'] 

Mrs.  Manly. — Hands  off,  sir !  Are  you  not  ashamed  of 
yourself,  sir?  How  dare  you  put  your  hands  on  another 
man's  wife! 

Arthur  {turning  and  facing  Mrs.  Manly). — Another  man's 
wife!     What  do  you  mean,  madam? 

Mrs.  Manly. — I  mean  that  that  young  lady  has  been 
sealed  to  John  Manly  by  the  Mormon  Church,  that  she  is 
his  wife,  and  that  she  is  now  half  mother  and  third  owner 
of  these  children,     [To  children.']     Is  she  not,  my  dears? 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am  ! 

Arthur. — Nonsense!  This  is  preposterous!  Why,  it 
has  only  been  a  few  hours  since  she  left  us  at  the  hotel  to 
go  on  an  independent  tour  of  inspection  of  Salt  Lake  City 
and  its  Mormon  Tabernacle. 

Mrs.  Manly. — And  the  Mormons  have  claimed  her. 


ALMOST  A   MORMON.  27 

3fiss  Siiidair. — O  Arthur,  take  me  away  I      This  seeiaij 
like  some  horrid  dream  ;  it  cannot  be  real. 
AHhur. — To  be  sure  I'll  take  you  away.    Come  I 

(Enter  John  Manly  hurriedly.^ 

Mrs.  Manly. — You  are  just  in  time,  John! 

John. — In  time  for  what  ? 

Arthur. — In  time  to  explain  your  conduct,  sir!  That's 
what  you  are  in  time  for. 

Mrs.  Manly. — Yes,  and  in  time  to  defend  yourself  before 
me,  your  wife,  and  those  \_j)ointlng  to  childreii],  your  off- 
epriug!    O  John  Manly !     How  could  you  do  this  thing? 

John. — I  have  done  nothing  that  I  would  not  do  again 
and  again,  whenever  occasion  offered. 

Arthur  (aside). — The  hardened  wretch  ! 

Mrs.  Manly. — O  you  awful  Mormon !  What  do  you 
suppose  your  dominie  at  home  would  say  if  he  heard  yon 
say  that  ? 

John. — Say  well  done,  I  suppose. 

3fiss  Sindmr. — Who  is  this  ? 

Mrs.  Manly. — Your  husband,  of  course ;  don't  you  know 
him? 

John. — What  ?     Her  husband  !     Who's  her  husband  ? 

Mrs.  Manly. — Why,  you,  aren't  you  ? 

John. — I  ?  Not  much.  As  I  have  said  before,  one  wife 
is  enough,  and  sometimes  more  than  enough,  for  me.  Don't 
accuse  me  of  being  a  Mormon.     I  hate  'em. 

Arthur. — Then  you  did  not  attempt  to  make  this  young 
lady  your  wife? 

John. — Well,  hardly !  One  wife  and  the  children  there 
are  all  I  can  support. 

Mrs.  Manly. — Then  maybe  you  will  explain  your  coH' 
duct  that  you  are  so  willing  to  repeat. 


28  ALMOST    A    MORMON. 

John. — I  will  in  very  few  words.  I  happened  to  be 
passing  the  Tabernacle  this  afternoon  when  I  saw  Elder 
Slabback.  You  know  the  old  wretch,  my  dear — the  fellow 
who  winked  at  you  the  first  Sunday  we  were  in  Salt  Lake. 
Well,  as  I  said,  I  saw  him  carrying  this  young  lady  out  of 
the  Tabernacle.  He  had  her  up  in  his  arms  like  a  baby. 
"  Where  are  you  going?"  I  asked.  "  That  is  my  business," 
he  replied.  A  little  shaver  who  happened  by  spoke  up. 
"  I  saw  him  in  the  Tabernacle,"  he  said ;  "  he  wanted  to 
seal  the  girl  to  him,  and  she  said  she  wouldn't  have  it. 
Then  she  fainted,  and  he  carried  her  off.  I  guess  he's  go- 
ing to  seal  her,"  With  that  I  followed  the  Elder  and  told 
him  to  take  her  back  to  the  hotel.  [To  Miss  Sinclair.']  I 
saw  your  face,  miss,  and  remembered  having  seen  you  at 
the  hotel.  He  refused,  and  told  me  to  be  off.  Then  I  had 
a  tussle  with  him,  got  the  best  of  him,  rescued  you,  and 
hurried  you  over  here.  You  recovered  from  the  faint  and 
had  a  fit  of  hysterics  on  the  way  here,  and  I  thought  it 
best  to  leave  you  in  my  wife's  care  while  I  hurried  to  the 
hotel  for  your  friends. 

Miss  Sinclair. — O  how  good  of  you  ! 

Arthur. — You're  a  noble  fellow.     Let  me  thank  you  1 

(^Arthur  and  John  shake  hands.) 

John. — When  I  got  to  the  hotel  I  tried  to  explain  whom 
I  wanted ;  but,  as  I  didn't  know  your  names,  I  couldn't 
make  the  stupid  clerk  understand. 

Arthur. — And  I  had  just  stepped  out,  having  become 
nervous  about  Miss  Sinclair's  absence.  I  heard  people 
talking  about  a  fellow  named  Manly  having  carried  a 
young  lady  into  his  cottage.  I  inquired  where  it  was 
and  came  straight  here. 

Mrs.  Manly. — O  my  brave  husband  I     I'm  as  proud  of 


BRIDGET'S   INVESTMENT.  2S 

you  as  though  you  had  beeu  elected  to  Congress  and  had 
a  bill  passed  abolishing  Mormouism. 

Arthur. — That  may  come  in  time.  Mr.  Manly  has  begun 
well,  certainly. 

Mrs.  Manly. — And  the  childi-en  are  proud  of  him,  too, 
aren't  you,  my  dears  ? 

Children. — Yes,  ma'am  ! 

Miss  Sinclair. — And  then  I  am  not  married  after  all, 
and,  Mrs.  Manly,  I  am  still  a  miss  ? 

Mrs.  Manly. — Yes,  miss;  but  it  looks  very  much  to  me 
[looking  sharply  at  Arthur,  who  has  his  arm  about  her}  that 
jrou  won't  be  a  miss  long. 

Arthur. — Not  if  I  can  help  it,  Mrs.  Manly. 

3frs.  Manly. — "Well,  we  wish  you  joy  I     Don't  we,  John  ? 

John-. — We  do,  that's  certain ! 

Mn,  Manly  (to  children). — Don't  we,  my  dears? 

C^  ildren. — Yes,  ma'am ! 

[Curtain,] 

Charles  Stokes  Wayne. 


BRIDGET'S  INVESTMENT. 

characters. 

Bridget,  a  servant. 

Mrs.  Morgan,  her  employer. 

Boy,  a  stove-polish  vender. 

Gentleman. 

An  Agent,  selling  tea. 

Scene  I. 

Bndget  ironing  and  humming  a  tune.     Enter  Mrs.  Morgan, 

Mrs.  M. — Bridget,  I  am  going  out  for  a  few  hours,  and 
r  shall  expect  you  to  finish  the  ironing  while  I'm  out. 
Y"oi  can  do  it  easily  if  you  have  no  interruptions.     DoD't 


80  Bridget's  investment. 

let  any  of  those  uuisances — traveling  agents  or  peddlers 
keep  you  from  your  work. 

Bridget. — Sure,  and  I  won't.  If  any  of  the  botherin* 
chates  attimpts  to  shtop  within,  I'll  shlap  to  the  door  in 
their  impideut  faces,  or  give  then],  a  bit  of  me  moind,  afthei" 
which  they'll  be  deloighted  to  lave  me  in  pace. 

3frs.  M. — Very  well.     I'll  be  home  at  two.     \_Exit.'] 

Bridget. — The  misthress  doesn't  know  Biddy  Muldoon 
if  she  thinks  I'll  be  tuk  in  by  one  of  thim  peddlin'  chates. 
I'm  just  sp'ilin'  for  a  chance  till  relave  my  tongue  by  sassin' 
thim,  and  its  meself  wishes  one  of  thim  would  come.  [A. 
hiock  is.  heard.']  Fwhat  was  that  ?  A  knock  ?  I'll  go  to 
the  door  and  say.     \_Opens  the  door,  and  a  voice  is  heard.] 

Boy. — Want  any  stove-polish?  Make  your  stove  or 
range  shine  like  a  lookin'-glass,  so  as  ye  can  see  your  purty 
face  in  it. 

Bridget. — Be  off  wid  ye's.  Your  blarneyin'  tongue 
won't  sell  ye's  any  stove-polish  here  the  day. 

Boy. — But,  can't  I — 

Bridget. — Git  out,  will  ye's,  now,  before  I'll  be  afthei 
Dallin'  the  dog.  [^Shuts  the  door,  comes  in,  and  goes  on  iron' 
ing  and  humming  the  tune,  but  is  interriqyted  by  anothef 
hnock.]  Whisht,  now !  There's  another.  Sorra  a  bit  will 
tne  ironin'  git  complated  Avid  me  runuin'  to  the  door  ivery 
foive  minutes.  [Goes  to  the  door  and  shouts.]  We  don't 
iRrant  anything  the  day.  We're  complatcly  shupplied  wid 
jhoe-blackin',  castile  soap,  sewin'  machines,  oranges  and 
limons,  patent  egg-beaters,  haugin'  hat-racks,  and  appoor- 
;enances  ginerally.  Ye's  can't  sell  me  the  amount  of  a  tin- 
jint-pace,  and  ye's  may  as  well  waltz  off  the  door-steps. 

Gentleman. — But,  my  good  girl,  I'm  not  asking  you  to 
buy  anything,  I  merely  called  to  see  Mrs.  Morgan  on  a 
Doatter  of  business. 


Bridget's  investment.  31 

Bridget— The  mistliress  is  gone  out,  but  she  will  be  home 
at  two  o'clock,  axiu'  your  pardon  for  me  mistakin  ye's  for 
an  agent. 

Gentleman. — I'll  call  again.     Good-morning. 

Bridget. — Good-morniug,  sir.  \_Closing  the  door  and 
again  ironing.']  It's  meself  that  got  a  holt  of  the  wrong 
iud  of  the  iron  that  time.  Mistakin'  a  gintlemau  for  a 
peddler !  It  all  comes  of  the  misthress's  care  in  cautionin' 
me  about  the  ageuts.  But  this  shirrut  looks  foine  and  smooth, 
now  doesn't  it.  Siven  shirruts  a  week  for  one  mon.  The 
masther  must  be  very  dirthy  to  make  so  much  washin'  and 
irouin'.  There  is  Pat  O'Kourke,  now.  Pat  can  wear  a 
shirrut  thray  wakes  widout  chaugin'.  Pat's  a  foine  b'y,  so 
he  is.  [^4.  knock  is  heard.']  Bad  luck  till  the  door-knocker! 
There  it  goes  again.  Sure,  I'll  kape  me  tongue  in  me 
mouth  this  toime,  till  I  say  fwhat  is  wanted,  and  not  be 
gettiu'  meself  into  a  foine  blunder  again. 

(  Goes  to  the  door  and  opens  it.) 

Agent. — Ah !  good-morning,  madam.  Have  I  the  pleas* 
lire  of  addressing  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

Bridget. — Sorra  a  bit  have  ye's. 

Agent. — Ah!  A  lady  friend  staying  with  her,  I  pre- 
sume. 

Bridget. — Ye's  prcshume  more  than  the  facts  will  war. 
rant  ye's  in  preshuming.     Fwhat  are  ye's  afther  wantin'  ? 

Agent. — I'll  just  step  in  a  minute  out  of  the  damp  air, 
and  then  we  can  converse  in  comfort.  [  IValks  boldly  in.] 
I  hope  I  don't  intrude,  as  I  would  not  on  any  account  in- 
commode a  lady  who  has  received  a  stranger  so  kindly. 
[Looks  around  the  room  with  a  patronizing  air.]  Very 
pleasant  room  this  is,  worthy  of  its  occupant.  [Boning 
politely  to  Bridget]  It  needs  but  one  thing  to  make  it 
perfect. 


32  Bridget's  investment. 

Bridget  (evidently  pleased). — And  fwhat  moight  that  bel 

Agent. — Au  iustrumeut  of  music,  to  be  sure.  I  see  by 
the  shape  of  your  hands — those  long,  taper  fingers — that 
you  are,  or  ought  to  be,  a  musician. 

Bridget. — I  can't  say,  as  I'm  a  complate  performer  at 
prisent,  but,  as  Pat  O'Rourke  fraquently  tells  me,  niver 
have  I  seen  the  undertakin'  as  was  too  hard  for  me  whin 
I  thried  it. 

Agent. — And  wouldn't  you  like  to  have  a  nice  cottage* 
organ  of  your  own  ? 

Bridget. — Faix,  and  I  would  that! 

Agent. — I  am  an  agent,  representing  a  large  tea  ware- 
house in  the  city,  and  we  wish  to  extend  our  business.  Of 
course,  to  do  that,  we  ofier  extra  inducements  to  buyers. 
Any  one  purchasing  to  the  amount  of  ten  pounds  of  tea  at 
seventy-five  cents  a  pound  will  receive  au  organ  as  a  pre- 
mium. Isn't  that  an  easy  way  to  get  a  musical  instru- 
ment? 

Bridget. — Faith,  an'  ye's  can't  be  in  airnest! 

Agent. — I  certainly  mean  it.  No  such  inducements 
were  ever  offered  to  purchasers  before,  but  there  is  no 
sham  about  it.  Purchase  the  tea  and  the  organ  will  arrive 
in  the  course  of  a  few  hours. 

Bridget. — Tin  toimes  sivinty-five  cents  is — 

Agent. — Seven  dollars  and  fifty  cents,  ma'am. 

Bridget. — And  have  ye's  the  tay  wid  ye's  ? 

Agent. — Certainly,  madam.  It  is  here,  in  this  package. 
Just  ten  pounds  in  the  package,  done  up  in  one-pound 
parcels. 

Bridget. — Perhaps  I'd  betther  be  waitin'  till  I  shpakes 
wid  the  misthress. 

Agent. — Of  course  I  would  not  wish  you  to  buy  unless 
Ton  feel  perfectly  satisfied  that  all  is  fair  and  square.    Our 


BRIDGETS   INVESTMENT. 

Brm  13  a  reliable  one.  It  is  because  we  do  busineee  on 
luch  a  large  scale  that  we  cau  afford  to  make  these  presents. 
I  wouldn't  wait  to  see  the  lady,  if  I  were  you.  Perhaps 
she  will  be  jealous  of  you  and  wish  to  get  the  organ  her- 
self. You  had  better  secure  it.  This  [getting  up  and 
selecting  a  place  in  the  room']  would  be  just  the  place  for 
it  to  stand.  How  I  wish  you  had  it  now.  I  would  so  de- 
light to  hear  you  play  and  sing. 

Bridget. — And  will  the  organ  be  here  the  day? 

Agent. — Before  night,  madam. 

Bridget. — But  fwhat  will  I  do  wid  all  that  lay  ?  [Laugh- 
ing-l  Faix,  and  I  can  make  prisents  to  all  me  frinds  and 
relations — 

Agent. — Besides  having  enough  to  go  to  housekeeping 
along  with  Pat — the  lucky  fellow  ! 

Bridget. — Arrah!  how  did  ye's  know  about  Pat? 

Agent. — Never  mind,  I  do  know,  and  a  happy  man  he'll 
be  with  his  nice  little  wife. 

Bridget. — Git  away  wid  ye's  now !  Here,  I'll  take  the 
bay,  and  pay  ye's  the  price  of  it.  It's  all  good  luck  that 
made  me  ax  the  misthress  for  me  money  this  mornin'. 
[GeC$  her  purse,  and  counts  out  the  money.']  There's  foive, 
lix,  siven  dollars,  and  a  quarther,  and  two  tins  and  a  foive. 
That's  correct,  I  belave. 

Agent. — Quite  correct,  and  here  is  your  package  of  tea. 
Good-morning.  You'll  not  see  me  again,  as  I  will  not 
bring  the  organ  myself,  but  you  must  not  forget  me. 

Bridget. — Faix,  and  I'll  think  of  ye's  whin  I  am  playin' 
aie  own  organ,  loike  any  other  lady,  and  good  luck  be  wid 
ye's.  [Exit  agent.  Bridget  picks  up  the  package.]  Troth, 
and  fwhat  a  lot  of  it  there  is.  I  can  make  it  foiue  and 
jhtroug  for  Pat,  sure.  But  to  think  of  rae  having  an 
»rgan  of  ine  own.     Faith,  and  I  won't  be  proud  ;  I'll  let 


^4:  Bridget's  investment. 

the  misthress  show  me  how  to  play.      lExU,  carrymf 
package^} 

Scene  II. 

Bridget  (enters  with  knitting,  and  glances  at  the  clock).-^ 
Siven  o'clock  is  it  ?  And  the  foine  organ  not  yit  arrived 
Well,  here's  the  chance  to  round  off  the  hale  of  my  shtockm' 
whilst  I'm  waitin'  for  it.  \_Commences  to  knit,  and  humi 
a  line  or  two  of  "  Kitty  Tyrrell,"  or  some  other  familiar  air, 
then  suddenly  stops  her  knitting  and  finishes  the  tune,  using 
her  hands  as  though  playing  on  the  instrument.']  Och  !  bu^ 
won't  Pat  shtare  when  he  comes  in  the  morrow,  and  sees 
me  foine  inshtriiment  fornenst  the  wall,  and  me,  loike  ray 
misthress,  the  lady,  playin'  the  accompaniments  and  sing 
ing  the  chunes.  But  whist !  here  she  comes  now — the  mis- 
thress, I  mane — and  I  must  kape  quiet.  Time  enough  to 
tell  her  about  it  when  the  men  are  briugin'  it  in. 

Mrs.  M.  {entering  withhooks  and  papers).— WqW,  Bridget, 
[  thought  I  would  bring  my  book  and  sit  with  you  awhile. 
The  front  part  of  the  house  is  so  lonesome,  now  that  John's 
away.     You  finished  your  ironing  to-day,  did  you? 

Bridget. — Faix  and  I  did — as  pritty  a  wake's  airnin'  as 
iver  ye  seed.  The  collars  and  cuffs  are  loike  boards,  mum, 
and  it  would  take  a  stronger  person  nor  you  to  break  in 
the  shirrut  bosoms,  they  are  that  stiff  and  firrum  loike. 
[  Glancing  uneasily  at  the  window.'] 

Mrs.  M. — Hadn't  you  better  close  the  shutters,  Bridget? 
That  is,  if  it  makes  you  nervous  to  have  them  open. 

Bridget — Niver  a  bit,  mum.  Shure  and  I  loike  to  give 
the  little  shtars  a  chance  to  pape  in ;  hark !  fwhat  was 
that? 

Mrs.  M. — I  heard  nothing  unusual,  Bridget;  some  on« 
passing  the  door,  I  think.     [^Resumes  her  reading.^ 


BRIDGETS   INVESTMENT.  3^ 

Bridget  (resumes  her  humming  for  a  moment,  then  starit 
up  suddenly). — Is  that  a  wagou  slitopping  at  the  door? 

Mrs.  M. — Certainly  not.  It  seems  to  me,  Bridget,  your 
organ — 

Bridget. — Och  !  and  do  you  know  about  it,  then  ?  Where 
is  it?     Whotokiye?     Did  ye  see  the  gintleman  himself? 

Mrs.  M. — What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about, 
Bridget  ?  Where  is  what  ?  See  whom  ?  I  was  merely  re- 
marking that  your  organ  of  hearing  seems  very  acute  to- 
night. 

Bridget. — Oh-h-h  !  \Adde :  Wasn't  I  the  doonce  to  be 
afther  given  mijseV  awaij  in  that  stoile.']  Now  I  know  what 
you  mane ;  shtupid  I  was  not  to  understand  you  at  first. 

Mrs.  M. — Bridget,  there's  something  on  your  mind,  and 
you  may  as  well  tell  me  what  it  is.  Have  you  and  Pat 
had  a  quarrel,  and  are  you  looking  for  him  to  come  and 
make  up?    That  you  expect  some  one  is  very  evident. 

Bridget. — Yes,  Mrs.  Morgan,  'tis  mysel'  that  do  expect 
some  one,  but  it  isn't  Pat.  And  as  you're  bound  to 
foind  out  sometime,  I'll  tell  you  fwhat  I've  been  afther 
doin'.  I  bargained  for  an  organ  the  mornin',  mum,  and 
sure  I'm  lookin'  ivery  minute  for  the  mon  what  will  fetch 
it  here  the  night. 

Mrs.  M. — An  organ !     You  buy  an  organ,  Bridget  ? 

Bridget. — Faix,  and  I  didn't  buy  an  organ.  It's  a  pra- 
miura  for  the  tay. 

3frs.  M. — A  premium  for  what  tea? 

Bridget. — For  the  tay  I  bought  the  mornin',  mum.  Such 
a  nice,  spry-lookin'  young  gintleman  he  was,  Mrs.  Mor- 
gan. He  represiuted  a  large  tay  firrum  in  the  city,  he  said. 
"And,"  says  he,  "if  you  will  take  tin  pounds  of  me  tay,  I 
will  prisent  you  wid  a  handsome  organ."  "  That's  a  good  bar- 
gain for  me,"  says  I.    "If  you're  afraid  it's  a  risk,"  said  he, 


56  BRIDGET^S    INVESTMENT. 

** don't  ye  do  it."  Wid  that  I  takes  out  my  poorse  and  counti 
the  money  into  his  hand — siven  dollars  and  fifty  cints. 
And  sorra  a  bit  do  I  grave  for  the  money — it  was  a  chap< 
inshtrumeut  at  that,  and  tlie  tay  thrown  in. 

3frs.  M. — Bridget,  Bridget,  is  it  possible  that  you  have 
been  the  dupe  of  that  outrageous  swindle,  which  has  jusi 
been  exposed  in  this  evening's  paper. 

Bridget. — Swindle,  do  you  say  ? 

Mrs.  M. — Yes,  a  swindle. 

Bridget. — And  won't  I  get  the  organ? 

Mrs.  M. — I'm  afraid  not.  ^Opening  the  paper  J]  Listen 
to  this.  \_Iteads:'\  A  young  man  of  good  address  and 
pleasing  manners,  representing  himself  to  be  an  agent  for 
a  large  tea  warehouse  in  this  city,  has  been  canvassing  the 
country,  offering  great  iiiduceraeuts  to  purchasers  in  the 
way  of  pianos,  sewing-machines,  organs,  etc.  Incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  many  persons  have  been  victimized,  and 
the  so-called  agent  has  by  this  time  made  good  his  escape. 

Bridget — And  do  you  think  that's  the  same  mon  as  sold 
«ie  the  tay  ? 

Mrs.  M. — There's  no  doubt  about  it,  Bridget. 

Bridget. — O  the  rascal !  he  desarves  to  be  prosecuted. 

Mrs.  M. — He's  too  smart  to  be  caught  now,  I'm  think- 
ing. 

Bridget. — Well,  mum,  there's  one  consolation  lift  me,  I 
have  the  tay,  you  know. 

Mrs.  M. — Suppose  you  bring  it  in,  Bridget,  and  let  us 
see  v/hat  it  is  like. 

Bridget  (goes  out  and  returns  with  the  tea,  opens  the  pach 
9,ge,  and  picks  up  one  of  the  parcels  and  smells  it). — Is  it 
grane  or  black?  I  niver  moinded  me  to  ax  the  rascally 
chate  the  natur  of  it.  [  Opens  if]  Begorra,  I  don't  belav€ 
it's  ta^  at  aJl    Look  at  it,  Mrs.  Morgan. 


J 


TEN  FAMOUS  TTOMEN.  37 

Mrs.  M. — It  looks  to  me  like  dried  rose-leaves  and  shay* 
ings.     O  Bridget !  you  have  been  sadly  duped, 

Bridget  {opening  a7iother). — And  this  is  joost  like  it. 
Och,  the  villain!     "Wouldn't  I  like  to  clutch  him  now. 

Mrs.  M. — I  think,  probably,  Bridget,  you  will  find  one 
pound  of  the  real  article  in  your  package,  as  that  much  is 
needed  to  give  an  odor  of  tea  to  the  whole ;  but  you  have 
paid  dear  for  it,  and  I  am  sorry  for  you.  But,  Bridget, 
*  you  must  remember  that  though  the  man  is  a  rascal,  you 
are  in  fault,  too.  Those  who  aim  to  get  valuable  articles 
for  little  or  nothing  are  not  blameless.  If  there  were  no 
foolish  people,  eager  to  grasp  more  than  they  pay  for, 
these  dishonest  tricksters  would  find  no  base  for  their 
operatioDs. 

Bridget. — Sure,  and  I  know  ye's  are  right,  and  I'm  afthei 
gettin'  the  retoorn  which  I  merit,  but  it's  no  more  comfort' 
abler  for  all  that.     I  only  hopes  Pat  won't  hear  of  it. 

Mrs.  M. — We'll   try  to  keep   the   secret  to   ourselves. 
You're  sufficiently  punished,  so  I'll  keep  quiet. 
[Curtain.] 

E.  C.  AND  L.  J.  Rook. 


TEN  FAMOUS  WOMEN. 

Eleven  ciliracters:  The  Goddess  of  History  should  be  attired  In  ft 
flowing  robe,  with  loose  drapery  across  the  chest.  She  may  be  seated  with 
five  or  six  good-sized  volumes  at  her  feet.  In  her  left  hand  a  partly  unrolled 
manuscript ;  in  her  right  hand  a  wand,  which  she  waves  to  bring  fonvartJ 
the  different  persons  represented.  The  other  ten  should  be  dressed  to  imi 
tate  the  characters  they  portray.  They  should  stand  in  a  group  or  semi- 
circle, and  each  one  as  she  speaks  should  step  a  little  to  the  front,  and 
remain  there  until  the  others  have  recited  the  verse  about  her.ttfler  which 
stije  may  rcturu  tu  her  place. 


14937.3 


S8  TEH  FAMOUS  WOMEIf. 

Then,  If  It  Is  deemed  necessary,  the  Goddess  may  make  known  the  Cliak 
WJter  by  pronouncing  the  name,  or  it  may  be  left  for  the  audience  to  guess 
To  get  a  good  idea  of  the  proper  costumes,  consult  history  and  portraits. 

loan  of  Arc,  1411-1431: 

I  was  born  in  a  land  across  the  seas,  nearly  five  hundred 
years  ago.  I  was  the  daughter  of  a  humble  peasant,  and 
in  my  girlhood  often  tended  my  father's  sheep.  But  the 
land  which  I  loved  was  invaded  by  a  foreign  foe,  and  the 
young  King  was  yet  uncrowned.  I  began  to  see  visions 
and  dream  dreams ;  and  God  revealed  to  me  that  it  was 
my  mission  to  lead  the  armies  of  my  sovereign,  and  free 
my  country  from  the  enemy.  The  young  King  believed  in 
me  and  the  soldiers  followed  me  to  victory.  After  my 
sovereign  was  crowned  at  Rheims,  I  wished  to  go  back  to 
my  humble  home,  but  he  persuaded  me  to  remain  with  the 
army.  I  was  captured  by  ray  rebellious  countrymen,  de- 
livered into  the  hands  of  the  English,  condemned  to  death 
as  a  sorceress,  and  burned  at  the  stake.  The  people  were 
moved  to  tears  by  the  heroism  with  which  I  met  death, 
and  even  my  executioner  cried  out,  in  an  agony  of  repent* 
ance,  "  We  are  lost  I  We  have  burned  a  saint !" 

All  the  others  in  concert : 

"Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  wrong  forever  on  the 

throne  ;— 
But  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim 

unknown 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  Hie 

own." — Lowell. 

Queen  Elizabeth,  1533-1603 : 

I  was  the  most  powerful  sovereign  that  ever  ruled  the 
freatest  nation  on  the  earth.  There  was  never  a  queen 
who  had  more  famous  courtiers  than  I.    One  of  these, 


TEX   FA:srOUS  'WOMEK.  39 

while  he  was  yet  unknown  to  the  world,  spread  hia  veivel 
mantle  on  the  ground  to  keep  my  royal  feet  from  the  stain  •, 
another,  "the  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of"  form," 
gave,  with  his  dying  breath,  a  cup  of  water  to  a  man,  whose 
necessity  was  greater  than  his.  During  my  reign  the 
greatest  poet  flourished  that  ever  wrote  to  delight  man- 
kind ;  and  the  strongest  fleet  that  had  ever  been  sent 
against  any  nation  was  driven  back,  dismantled,  from  my 
country's  shores.  Mine  was  not  the  mere  semblance  of 
glory,  for  in  reality,  as  well  as  in  name,  1  lived  and  died  a 
queen. 

All  the  others : 

Men  say  that  woman  cannot  rule. 

That  hers  is  only  to  obey  ; 
But  unto  thee  men  bent  the  knee, 
And  England  owned  thy  legal  sway. 

Josephine,  1763-1814: 

I  was  born  on  an  insignificant  island  of  the  West  Indies. 
I  was  twice  married.  My  first  husbaud  perished  by  the 
guillotine  during  the  horrors  of  the  French  Revolution, 
and  only  the  death  of  Robespierre  saved  me  from  sharing 
his  fate.  When  I  wedded  a  second  time  people  thought 
the  man  to  whom  I  gave  my  heart  was  beneath  me  in  rank ; 
but  he  made  himself  the  head  of  the  army,  and  then  the 
ruler  of  the  nation.  He  it  was  who  said  to  me,  "  I  win 
battles  but  you  win  hearts."  As  long  as  he  was  true  to 
me  he  gained  triumph  after  triumph,  hut  when,  for  selfish 
reasons,  he  set  me  aside  and  married  another,  his  star 
began  to  decline,  and  he  died  a  prisoner  and  in  exile.  I 
did  not  long  survive  him  ;  all  the  people  mourned  for  me, 
for  they  called  me  "the  guardian  angel  of  France." 


40  TEN  FAMOUS  WOMEN. 

All  the  others: 

"  With  reason  firm,  and  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill,— 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command." 

— Adapted  from  Wordswcn^ 
Lucretia  Matt,  1793-18 — : 

On  a  little  island  on  the  bleak  coast  of  New  England 
my  childhood's  days  were  passed.  At  fifteen  years  of  age 
I  began  to  teach  school ;  at  eighteen  I  was  married ;  a^ 
twenty -five  I  became  a  minister  in  the  Society  of  Friends- 
In  addition  to  what  I  said  in  meeting,  I  spoke  often  and 
earnestly  in  behalf  of  peace,  woman's  rights,  and  the  abo- 
lition of  slavery.  I  was  often  in  the  midst  of  mobs  and 
violence,  but  no  one  ever  did  me  harm,  and  I  lived  to  see 
the  chains  fall  from  every  slave  in  my  native  land.  But 
although  engaged  in  so  many  public  duties,  I  never  forgot 
that  a  woman's  first  thought  should  be  for  her  home  and 
her  family ;  and  now,  when  I  am  no  longer  in  their  midst; 
children  and  children's  children  hold  my  memory  dear. 

All  the  others : 

,"  Blessing  she  was ;  God  made  her  so. 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fell  from  her,  noiseless  as  the  snow. 
Nor  did  she  ever  chance  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless.'* 

— Adapted  from  LoweU. 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  1807-1861  : 

England  was  the  country  of  my  birth,  Italy  the  land  of  my 
adoption.  The  laurels  that  adorn  my  brow  were  won,  not 
by  the  sword,  but  by  the  pen.  I  did  not  lead  armies  ta 
battle,  like  Joan  of  Arc,  but  I  inspired  soldiers  by  my 


TEN   /"AMOUS   WOMEN.  A\ 

poems ;  I  did  not  plead  the  cause  of  woman  from  tlie  plat- 
form, as  did  Lucretia  ]\Iott,  but,  like  her,  I  showed  man- 
kind what  a  woman  can  do ;  I  was  not  sovereign  of  a 
nation,  like  Elizabeth,  but  my  empire  is  greater  than  hers, 
for  the  world  has  crowned  me  Queen  of  Poetry. 

All  the  others : 

"  She  sang  the  song  of  Italy  ; 
She  wrote  Aurora  Leigh." 

Harriet  Beecher  Stoive,  1812  : 

I  was  born  in  New  England,  and,  like  a  true  New  Eng^ 
/and  girl,  I  began  early  in  life  to  grapple  with  deep  theo« 
logical  subjects ;  before  I  was  twelve  years  old  I  wrote  an 
assay  upon  the  question,  "  Can  the  immortality  of  the  soul 
be  proved  by  the  light  of  nature  ?"  When  I  became  a 
woman  I  wrote  novels  instead  of  theology ;  the  greatest  (A 
these  stirred  the  pulse  of  the  nation,  and  helped  to  break 
the  bondman's  chain ;  it  has  been  translated  into  every 
European  language,  and  has  been  read  and  re-read  by  th« 
people  of  my  native  land. 

'*  When  truth  herself  was  slavery's  slave. 
My  hand  the  prisoned  suppliant  gave 
The  rainbow  wings  of  fiction." 

All  the  others : 

"  When  a  deed  is  done  for  freedom,  through  the  broad 

earth's  aching  breast. 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east  to 

west." — Loxoell. 

Grace  Darling,  181-5-1842: 

My  home  was  on  a  rocky  island  on  the  north-eastern 
coast  of  England.  My  father  was  a  light-house  keeper. 
My  life  on  earth  was  less  than  half  of  the  allotted  threa 


42  TEN   FAMOUS  WOMEN. 

score  years  and  ten,  but  I  lived  long  enough  to  save  nina 
other  lives.  One  night  a  ship  was  wrecked  upon  our  coast, 
and  in  the  morning  we  saw  some  people  clinging  to  the 
distant  rocks.  I  persuaded  my  father  to  help  me  row  a 
boat  over  the  angry  waters.  We  reached  them,  and  brought 
them  all  safe  to  the  shore. 

AH  the  others : 

"  The  shortest  life  is  longest  if  'tis  best, — 
'Tis  ours  to  work,  to  God  belongs  the  rest ; 
Our  lives  are  measured  by  the  deeds  we  do, 
The  thoughts  we  think,  the  objects  we  pursue." 

Florence  Nightingale,  1820 : 

1  am  an  English  woman,  but  I  was  born  in  a  sunny 
Italian  city,  whose  beautiful  name  became  my  own. 
I,  too,  saved  many  lives,  but  my  work  was  on  the  field  ol 
battle,  and  not  on  the  stormy  ocean.  The  soldiers  in  the 
hospitals  were  wounded  and  dying, — mauy  of  them  dying 
from  inattention  and  neglect,  I  went  among  them,  minis- 
tered to  their  wants,  dressed  their  wounds,  and  spoke  worda 
of  cheer ;  and  some  of  them  loved  me  so  well,  that  they 
even  kissed  my  shadow,  as  it  fell  upon  the  wall. 

All  the  others : 

"  On  England's  annals,  through  the  long 
Hereafter  of  her  speech  and  song, 
The  lady  with  a  lamp  shall  stand 
In  the  great  history  of  the  land, 
A  noble  type  of  good^ 
Heroic  womanhood." — LongfeUow, 
Jenny  Lind,  1821 : 

I  was  born  in  the  Northland,  but  I  have  made  the  world 
my  country,  for  I  charmed  both  hemispheres  by  my  song 
Those  who  heard  me  count  the  time  thus  spent  among  the 


TEX   FAMOUS   WOMEN.  45 

golden  hours  of  their  lives.  And  now,  when  the  young 
men  rave  about  Nilsson,  and  Gerster,  and  Patti,  the  old 
men  shake  their  heads  and  say,  "  Yes,  their  voices  are 
wonderful,  but  you  should  have  heard  the  Swedish  Night- 
ingale !" 

^11  the  others : 

"  Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  or  sweet  or  clear  thy  music  did  surpass." 

— Shelley. 
Harriet  Hosmer,  1831 : 

I  came  from  the  old  Bay  State,  whence  have  sprung  s© 
many  famous  men  and  women.  In  my  childhood's  days 
I  lived  out  of  doors  ;  I  learned  to  ride,  row,  swim,  and 
Bhoot ;  I  spent  many  an  hour  modeling  figures  in  clay. 
When  I  became  a  woman  I  studied  art,  and  now  I  work 
in  marble.  I  have  wandered  from  my  native  land,  and 
my  home  is  in  Italy,  the  land  of  artists.  But  many  of 
my  creations  have  found  their  way  to  my  own  country, 
s,nd  America  is  proud  of  the  woman,  who,  as  a  sculptor 
stands  first  among  her  sisters. 

A.II  the  others : 

"  Maiden,  when  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  born, 
The  morning  stars  their  ancient  music  make, 
Ajid,  joyful,  once  again  their  song  awake." 

— Lowell. 


All: 


The  lesson  of  our  lives  is  this, — 
That  woman's  sphere  is  wide ; 

That  what  by  women  has  been  done, 
By  women  may  be  tried. 


44  GENEVRA. 


You  may  not  win  a  noble  name. 

Such  honor  falls  to  few  ; 
Whatever  work  lies  next  your  hand, 

That  work  God  means  for  you. 

Then  do  it  wisely,  do  it  well ; 

Be  brave  and  pure  and  good ; 
And,  great  or  small  your  part  in  life. 
Hold  fast  your  womanhood. 
[Finis.] 

Elizabeth  Lloyd. 


GENEVRA. 

Founded  on  the  legend  as  told  in  the  old  song  entitled,  "  The  Mistl*to« 
Bough." 

CHARACTERS. 

LovELL— the  bridegroom. 

Genevea— the  bride. 

A  Knight. 

A  Lady. 

Guests  as  many  as  desirable. 

A  beyy  of  lads  and  lassies  for  last  scene. 

Scene  I. 

After  the  wedding — Genevra  and  guests  still  in  wedding 
costumes  appropriate  to  the  times — Holly,  or  other  ever-green 
decorations.  Antique  furnishings  for  room,  stags'  horm 
upon  wall,  and  punch  howl  upon  the  table. 

Lovell. — Now,  merry  hearts,  let  games  begin, 
At  games  the  dullest  one  may  win ; 
The  prize  I've  won,  bowing  full  low, 
I  own  with  humble  heart  doth  show 
That  daring,  not  desert,  hath  won ! 


GENEVRA.  40 


Genevrh. — The  game !  the  game ! 
Lovell,  have  done. 

Knight. — 

Good  sii-,  thy  prowess,  questioned  never, 

By  us  shall  be  remembered  ever, 

If  dariug  wins  the  fair 

We  all  will  dare  [turning  to  ladies] — beware  5 

But  now  a  game,  as  says  thy  bride. 

Now,  who  ? • 

Genemra  {exclaims  gaijhj). — 

I'll  hide!  I'll  hide!  I'll  hide! 
Lovell,  thou'st  sought  in  glen  and  glade 
The  covert  where  the  deer  hath  stayed  ; 
Think'st  thou  as  true  thou'lt  follow  where 
I  shelter  find  ?  Come,  ladies  fair. 
Comfort  my  lord  a  moment's  space. 

Jjady  (aside). — 

Genevra,  but  a  moment's  grace ; 
I  tell  thee  that  his  cheek  did  pale 
Its  color  when  beneath  thy  veil 
A  moment  you  were  still  as  death. 
I  watched  him  theu — his  fitful  breath 
Came  in  short  gasps — he  loves  thee  well ', 
Stay  not  too  long  in  covert  dim 
Out  of  sweet  pity  unto  him  I 

Genevra. — Fie  !  fie  my  own  ! 

Hast  heard  it  said  ? — 

I  have ! —  When  once  a  man  is  wed 

Tease  and  elude  and  still  mock  on, 

If  wife  will  keep  what  maid  hath  won! 

I'll  find  a  nook — a  half-hour's  rest 

From  eager  groom  and  tiresome  guest  I 


4€  GENEVRA. 

[Turns  to  eomparvg^ 
Turn  to  the  wall  each  happy  face  I 
Each  hide  the  eyes  a  little  space  I 
Count  one,  two,  three,  and  so  to  ten ; 
J'rom  ten  go  on  to  ten  again. 
And  now  I  go !  Who  findeth  me 
May  claim  my  hand  for  dances  three, 
May  drink  my  health,  be  first  to  call 
Me  hostess  true  of  Lovell  Hall  I 

Guests  in  concert  (to  music  if  wished). — 

Oue,  two,  three,  four,  five  six,  seven,  eight, 
nine,  ten  I 
Lovell. — Now,  friends,  we'll  count  it  once  again. 
Guests  (in  concert).^ 

And  one,  two,  three,  and— 
Lovell. — Seven  are  ten  !  ILaughter."] 

Knight. — Away  !  away  !  I  heard  her  feet 

Fly  soft  but  fleet — yes,  soft  and  fleet- 
Past  me.    This  doorway  I  will  try. 

A  guest. — 

And  this  one  1 1 

Another  guest. — And  this  one  II 
(All  go  out  by  different  exits — remain  a  little  time — mtme.) 

Scene  II. 
All  re-enter,  some  laughing  and  breathless,  Lovell  half  anxiow 

Lady. — We  searched  the  gallery  long  and  dim, 
Afraid  each  pictured,  armored  knight 
Might  leap  from  arras,  niche,  or  wall, 
Till  we  were  half  aswooned  from  fright! 
She  did  not  answer  to  our  call. 


GENEVRA  ^ 

A  Gentleman. — 

I  half  had  sworn  I  heard  her  sigh, 
As  she  were  frighted  too,  when  I 
Looked  back  of  moth-worn  velvet  chairs, 
Where  saints  above  once  knelt  at  prayers— 
I  list'n'd  again. 

In  the  old  wall 
I  heard  the  wainscot-mouse  ;  an'  the  fall 
And  sough  o'  the  wind  "  in  turret  and  tree," 
Sounded  so  long  and  dismally 
That  had  my  lady  fair  been  hid 
In  that  ghostly  chamber,  even  she— 
A  bride — had  hailed  me  rapturously  I 

LoveU  [to  first  lady). — 

My  lady  fair,  what  said  she  when 
She  smiled  and  whispered  unto  thee  ? 

And  then 
Challenged  us  to  this  search  ? 

Lady. —  That  she 

Would  find  a  half-hour's  rest !  [teasingly] 

Be  free  from  her  dear  lord  and  tiresome  guest  I 

hovell  {jponders — then  speaks). — 

Go  on  with  mirth  and  laugh  and  jest, 
I,  only  will  prolong  the  quest, 
I'  fiiith  I  swear  I  think  'twere  best 
Her  lord  claim  guerdon  and  not  guest  I 

(Lovelt  goes  out — imisic  and  the  minuet,  or  games,  or  a 
tong,  as  performers  choose — occasionally  one  looks  anxiously 
9r  another  listens  for  LoveU' s  return.) 

(Enter  LovelL) 


18  OENEVHA. 

Lovell. — Is  she  not  here? 

A  little  fear 

Unmans  a  man ! 
(Sinks  down  half  smiling.     They  gather  about  him.) 

First  Lady. — 

Have  courage !  More  she  said ; 

'Twere  well  and  good 

A  husband,  like  a  lover,  should 

Know  worth  of  her  so  surely  won 

By  arts  such  as  his  heart  had  won ! 

Mayhap  about  her  bridal  gear 

She's  thrown  some  cloak,  and  no  doubt 

Where  shadows  lurk  she's  crouched  in  rest. 

In  sleep  forgetting  lord  and  guest  I 

Again  we'll  search,  and  revelrie 

Led  by  her  on  shall  be  less  dree ! 

Come  one,  come  all,  if  Lovell  then, 

Unlike  most  lords,  must  find  again 

His  bride  !  Away !  away !    away  ! 

( Tliey  go  as  gayly  as  before — presently  music  of  a  dirg^ 

tounds  faintly — they  come  in  one  by  one,  look  blankly  ai 

each  other,  whisper,  shake  their  heads,  try  to  smile — LoveU 

daggers  in.) 

Lovell  {despairingljf). — Is  she  not  here? 

O  friends  of  mine! 
Once,  heated  by  the  fumes  of  wine, 
I  did  a  wrong  to  one !  But  now 
I  did  remember  how  a  prayer 
From  my  foe's  lips  was  sent  to  heaven  I — 
'Twas  this— 

"  Mav  joys  fall  with'ring  at  his  touch, 
May  happiness  but  mock  his  gaze" — 


I 


GENEVRA.  49 

Then  turning  where  I  stood, 
Remorseful,  even  before  my  deed 
Had  been  recorded  with  a  speed 
Of  word  and  blow  that  took  my  breath, 
He  hissed,  "  I'll  follow  thee  like  Death, 
Ay,  will  be  Death  to  all  thy  good !" 
My  friends,  he  made  a  cross  in  blood, 
The  blood — my  blood  his  hand  had  drawn, 
Swore  by  that  cross,  and  swearing  fled ! 
My  bride !  my  bride !  alas,  is  dead  ! 
(^The^  draw  about  him  to  comfort,  and  curtain  falls.) 

Scene  III. 

A  garret — chests  about — dark  corners — young  voices  heard 
approaching — a  gay  company  enter. 

Young  Girl. — 

Uncle  Lovell  said  we  may 

Find  in  these  old  chests  well  stored 

Some  old  costumes  for  our  play. 

Another. — Dear  old  man  !  alway,  alway 
Striving  hard  to  please  us  well. 
Poor  old  man !  Striving  hard  to  cover 
With  dear  smiles  his  sadness  over. 
Lest  our  hearts  be  chilled  foretime. 

Another. — See  this  old,  worm-eaten  hold 

Of  satin,  silver,  plumes,  and  gold ! 

Strong  the  lock  and  firm  the  lid, 

Help  me,  Conrad !  [^Loohs  in  as  lid  is  lifted] 

Lo !  amid 
Dust  and  darkness,  like  a  star, 
Something  shines— What  is't?  A  ring! 


^  (JENEVRA. 

A  diamond  circle !  Strange  sole  thing 
For  such  great  chest  and  hasp  and  key ! 

(  Takes  up  ring^ 
Another. — Alice !  Alice !  Let  me  see ! 

Conrad. — Alice !  All !  What  can  this  mean  ? 
Yes,  it  must  be ! 

This  has  been 
The  silent  grave  of  her  so  dear, 
So  greatly  mourned  this  many  a  year. 

Alice. — Oh !  what  woe !  what  woe ! 

Strange  they  never  thought  to  look 
Within,  when  every  crevice,  nook, 
And  forest  even  searched  they  through  I 
It  cannot  be  our  uncle  knew 
This  secret  spring  had  e'er  been  tried 
By  his  Genevra. 

Poor  young  bride ! 
How  glad  and  gay  and  sweet  and  fair 
She  must  have  been ! 

And  oh!  that  there 
She  should  have  died ! 

It  must  be  so ! 

Anne. — And  the  years  that  he  has  wandered  far  and 
wide. 
By  plain  and  sea  and  mountain  side. 
Ever  thinking  it  might  be 
He  yet  would  find  her — piteously 
Scanning  every  crowded  mart 
With  eager  eyes  and  eager  heart. 
At  last  come  home  to  end  his  life 
In  striving  thus  to  make  us  glad 
In  every  way — -by  every  plan 


CONTESTINO    FOR   A    PRIZE.  5) 

He  could  devise.     Dear,  sad  old  man, 
How  can  we  tell  him  what  we've  found  ? 
{Lovell  enters,  old,  gray,  and  smiling  pathetically.  He  catches 
sight  of  chest  and  ring,  grasps  the  latter  and  cries). — 

Oh  !  my  bride !  my  love  !  my  wile  !   my  pride ! 
(^Conflicting  emotions  depicted  on  every  face). 
This  is  where  she  hid,  and,  prisoned,  died  ! 
(^Falh  071  knees,  burying  face  in  hands  and  leaning  on  chest.) 
[Curtain   falls.] 
Music  low  and   mournful,  or  the  singing  of   "  Oh  !  the 
Mistletoe  Bough,"  by  a  concealed  choir  may  fittingly  fol- 
low the  fall  of  the  curtain. 

Emma  Sophie  Stilwell. 


CONTESTING  FOR  A  PRIZK 


characters. 


John  Seyjiour,  Professor  of  Elocution. 

Paul  Rodgers,  Judge. 

Jdlia  Gray,     1 

Alice  Hill,      I  Contestants. 

Jennie  Drew.  J 

Scene.— Parfor,  in  xohich   Professor  S.  is  seated.     Enier 

Paid  Rodgers. 

P^qJ^  S.—^lv  ^^ear  sir,  I  thank  you  heartily  for  the  kind- 
ness which  has'  prompted  you  to  serve  as  judge  upon  this 
occasion. 

jl/^.  i?._Not  at  all,  sir-not  at  all ;  the  only  question  in 
my  mind  is  why  you  should  have  so  honored  me. 

Pro/.  /S.— Whom  should  one  promote  to  the  position  of 
judge,  pray,  if  not  a  promising  young  lawyer. 

Mr.  R. — Again  you  honor  me  [hoioing']. 

Prof   »S.— Having  expressed  my  appreciation  of  you< 


555  CONTESTING   FOR  A   PRIZE. 

kindness,  we  will  proceed  to  the  business  at  hand.  Ftn 
some  years  past  it  has  been  my  custom  at  the  end  of  a 
course  of  instruction  to  j^resent  a  gold  medal  to  the  pupil 
who  shall  prove  most  efficient  in  the  art  of  elocution. 
During  the  whole  term  of  the  present  class  three  young 
ladies  have  stood  side  by  side,  their  examination  proving 
them  of  equal  merit,  therefore  a  decision  must  be  reached 
through  other  means.  The  method  chosen  I  have  already 
described  to  you.  The  trial  sentence  consists  of  the  two 
words,  "  Take  this."  You  are  to  describe  the  positions,  and 
the  characters  to  be  personated. 

Mr.  R. — I  understand  perfectly. 

Prof.  S. — At  the  close  of  the  contest  you  will  award  the 
prize  to  the  young  lady  you  consider  most  deserving. 

Mr.  E. — Exactly. 

Prof.  S. — I  am  expecting  the  young  ladies  at  half-past 
ten.  \_Glaneing  at  his  watch.l  It  is  already  time  they 
were  here.  [  Voices  ivithout,  a  knock  at  the  door ;  the  PrO' 
fessor  rising,  opens  it ;  enter  three  young  ladies.^ 

Prof.  S. — Good-morning,  young  ladies. 

Alice. — Good-morning. 

Jennie. — Good-morning,  Professor. 

Julia. — Good-morning. 

Prof.  S. — Allow  me  to  present  to  you  your  judge,  Mr, 
Paul  Rodgers.  Mr.  Rodgers,  let  me  make  you  acquainted 
with,  the  contestants,  Miss  Julia  Gray,  MioS  Alice  Hill,  and 
Miss  Jennie  Drew. 

Mr.  R. — Most  happy  to  meet  you. 

Prof.  S. — And  now,  Mr.  Rodgers,  we  will  proceed  witk 
ihe  contest. 

Jennie  (aside). — He  doesn't  look  very  severe. 

Alice  (iiervously). — But,  Professor  Seymour,  we  have  no* 
the  least  idea  upon  what  we  are  to  contest. 


CONTESTING    FOR    A    PRIZE.  B3 

Prof.  S. — Mr.  Rodgers  will  explain. 

Jennie. — You  are  not  goiug  to  be  very  hard  with  us,  ai« 
fvw,  Mr.  Rodgers?   My  memory  is  most  treacherous. 

Mr.  R. — Your  memory  will  be  taxed  very  little. 

Jennie  (jtside  to  Alice). — Julia  isn't  going  to  waste  hei 
irocal  powers ;  she  has  not  said  one  word  since  she  came  in. 

Alice. — Oh !  she's  sure  of  winning  the  prize,  I  can  see 
that  plainly. 

Mr.  E. — Are  you  ready,  young  ladies? 

Chorus. — Quite  ready. 

Mr.  B. — You  are  to  remember  but  two  words — "  Take 
this."  I  will  picture  for  you  the  characters,  conditions, 
ind  surroundings,  and  you  will  express  them  in  those  two 
ivords. 

Jennie. — Or,  rather,  we  will  endeavor  to  do  so.  [  Withering 
jlance  from  Julia.'] 

Mr.  i?. — ]\Iiss  Gray,  imagine  yourself  the  queenly  daugh» 
;er  of  a  royal  father,  surrounded  by  all  the  luxury  and 
aeauty,  art  and  nature  can  aiford,  at  your  feet  the  favorite 
inight  of  the  moment ;  in  your  hand  the  token  of  that 
!avor,  which  you  present  to  him  with  those  words. 

Julia. — Take  this. 

Mr.  R. — INIiss  Hill,  you  are  to  personate  a  nursery  maid 
entering  a  room,  which  ten  minutes  ago  you  left  in  i)erfect 
Drder,  but  which  has  been  completely  transformed  in  that 
jhort  space  of  time  by  a  small  boy.  Your  patience  va 
;ri«d  to  such  an  extent  that  you  smack  the  offender's 
bands. 

Alice. — Take  this ! 

Mr.  R. — Miss  Drew,  a  widow  bends  o'er  the  death-bed 
)f  her  only  child.  He  has  refused  to  take  the  medicine  upon 
which  her  last  hope  depends.  With  all  her  woman's  heart 
in  her  voice  she  beseeches  him. 


54  CONTESTING  FOR  A   PRIZE. 

Jennie. — Take  this. 

Mr.  R. — Professor,  I  understand  we  were  to  have  sh 
characters,  each  young  lady  representing  two. 

Prof.  S. — That  is  correct — proceed. 

Mr.  R. — Once  more,  Miss  Gray,  the  scene  is  that  of  a 
children's  festival.  At  the  moment  they  are  enjoying,  as 
only  children  can,  ice-cream,  cakes,  and  candies.  One  little 
maiden  has  already  before  her  a  plate  of  ice-cream,  of 
which  she  evidently  approves,  as  she  advises  her  little 
neighbor  in  the  most  audible  whisper,  to  "Take  this," 
pointiug  to  the  particular  variety  on  her  plate. 

Mm  Gray. — Take  this.  \_Every  one  smiles,  Mr.  R.  uses 
liandkerchief,  fearing  to  shoio  too  much  enjoyment.'] 

Mr.  R. — You,  Miss  Hill,  are  to  imagine  a  pretty  draw- 
ing-room, in  the  middle  of  which  stands  a  wee  baby  boy, 
hesitating,  tottering ;  at  a  little  distance  a  lady,  holding  in 
her  hand  a  bright  toy,  for  which  she  is  endeavoring  ta 
persuade  the  child  to  take  its  first  steps. 

Alice. — Take  this. 

Mr.  R. — Miss  Drew,  you  are  to  become  for  the  time 
being,  a  little  country  girl,  who  has  had  the  misfortune  to 
offend  her  lover.  He  is  a  young  man  from  the  city,  who, 
having  won  her  heart  among  other  summer  pastimes,  re- 
fuses now  to  have  his  wrath  appeased,  although  she  offers 
him  the  red  rose  that  hides  in  her  sunny  hair,  the  last  of 
the  woodland  flowers  that  are  pinned  to  her  dress— in  fact, 
any  of  her  treasures,  until  in  desperation  she  bashfully 
offers  him  a  kiss. 

Jennie  {bashfully  twisting  her  dress,  hesitating,  sidling 
tloser  to  the  judge). — Take  this. 

Mr.  R.  (hending  over  quickly,  attempts  to  kiss  her). 

Jennie. — Mr.  RodgersI 

Alice. — Oh  I 


CONTESTING    FOR   A    PRIZB.  M 

Julia. — How  shocking ! 

Prof.  S. — What  does  this  mean,  sir  ? 

Mr.  R. — I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Drew — Professor  Sey- 
mour— ladies.  You  are  surely  convinced  of  this  fact,  that 
I  had  no  intention  of  insulting  Miss  Drew.  My  explana- 
tion for  so  unaccountable,  so  unmanly  an  act  is  this  :  Miss 
Drew  was  completely  lost  in  the  character  she  personated, 
and  for  the  moment  I  saw — knew  only  the  country  maiden, 
and  myself  became  the  appeased  lover.  Weak  as  the  ex- 
planation may  seem,  it  is  all  I  have  to  give,  but  it  is  an 
honest  one. 

Prof.  S. — Had  you  been  a  stranger  I  should  doubt  your 
word,  as  it  is,  1  truly  believe  you. 

Julia  {aside). — It  is  all  her  fault,  anyhow.  She  had  no 
right  to  look  at  him  in  such  an  insinuating  manner. 

Alice. — Absurd,  She  had  a  right  to  make  it  as  natural 
as  possible. 

Mr.  R. — This  unfortunate  occurrence  makes  the  one 
deserving  of  the  prize  apparent  to  you  all.  To  lead  the 
audience  to  forget  the  speaker  and  know  only  the  character 
portrayed  is  the  aim  of  every  true  artist ;  but,  in  addition 
to  this,  to  make  the  judge  forget  he  is  a  judge,  is  certainly 
^he  crowning  achievement. 

Miss  Drew,  pardon  me,  and  allow  me  the  honor  of  pre- 
senting you  wath  this  medal,  of  which  you  are  so  worthy. 
(Jfi«s  Drew,  accepting  the  medal,  bows.) 
[Finis.] 

Adeline  B.  Aveey. 


53  rHE  SPIRIT   OP   LIBERTY. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  LIBERTY. 

CHARACTERS. 

Martha. 
Marian  Eutasia- 
Other  Ladies. 

Scene  I. 

Martha,  a  young  lady,  attired  in  the  fashion  of  1776,  seateo 
in  a  humble  room  at  a  spinning-wheel,  which  she  worh 
at  intervals,  while  she  recites  the  following  stanzas,  tht 
refrain  being  recited  (or  sung)  by  a  concealed  chorus  oj 
young  ladies. 

Martha. — Bright  is  the  moon  that  hangs  aloft ; 
The  air  of  night  is  sweet  and  soft ; 
The  stars,  that  ne'er  a  tear  have  shed, 
Are  full  of  gold  smiles  overhead. 
Chorus. — Little  they  know  of  Boston  tea. 
Or  the  great  price  of  liberty. 

Martha. — The  forest  paths,  all  broad  and  free, 
That  stretch  their  arms  invitingly. 
Are  edged  with  moss,  begemmed  with  flowers, 
They  know  no  sad,  no  anxious  hours. 
Chorus. — No  breaking  hearts,  no  Boston  tea. 
Or  the  sad  price  of  liberty. 

Martha. — The  fringed  grass  the  clover  holds, 
Each  day  accustomed  beauty  molds. 
Nature,  in  her  most  perfect  plan. 
Seems  mocked  alone  by  struggling  man. 
Chorus. — He  spilled,  alas,  the  Boston  tea, 
And  vowed  the  vow  of  liberty. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF   LIBERTY.  5' 

(^She  ceases  singing  and  sjiins  a  few  moments  steadily,  ther, 
the  wheel  moves  slowly  and  she  sings^ — 

Martha. — Strong  aiid  firm  is  the  thread  I  spin, 
To  wrap  the  forms  I  love  within. 
Heavy  of  texture,  it  shall  keep 
My  soldiers  warm,  when  cold  winds  sweep. 
Chorus. — Sweep  o'er  them,  as  for  Boston  tea 
They  strike  the  blow  of  liberty. 

Martha. — Could  I  but  turn  my  flax  to  brass 

Through  which  no  sword  or  shot  could  pass ; 
A  buckler  spin  impregnable, 
That  would  each  British  ball  repel, 
Chonis. — Then  could  we  smile  at  Boston  tea, 
Nor  dread  the  price  of  liberty. 

Martha. — Still,  grief  for  labor  must  make  way. 

And  hands  not  rest  that  voice  have  sway. 
For  independence  was  declared — 
We'll  have  it  while  an  arm  is  spared ! 
Chorus. — Nor  pay  a  tax  on  Boston  tea. 

We'll  work  and  fight  for  liberty ! 

{She  spins  rapidly  a  little  while,  then  ceases,  saying  plain 
titely.) 

Martha. — At  Lexington  my  father  fell. 

And  brothers  two.     Who  can  foretell 
What  will  befall  the  younger  boys. 
And  he  who  was  to  share  my  joys  ? 
Chorus. — The  price,  the  price  of  Boston  tea, 
The  heavy  price  of  liberty. 


58  THE  SPIRIT    OF   LIBERTY. 

(She  turns  the  wheel  a  few  rounds  slowly,  then  dngs  cheet 
fully. ) 

Martha. — If  they  can  fight  with  dauntless  heart. 
Shall  we  not  try  to  do  our  part  ? 
So  that  at  last  the  right  may  win. 
We'll  pray  for  courage  while  we  spin. 
Chorus. — The  hearts  that  sank  the  Boston  tea 
Will,  conquering,  gain  sweet  liberty. 

Martha. — This  spinning-wheel  must  swiftly  turn 
Until  the  sun  of  morning  burn. 
These  robes  are  needed.     I  must  break 
This  spell  of  thought,  and  silence  take— 
Chorus. — With  labor,  for  the  Boston  tea 
Sank,  and  up  rose  our  liberty. 

{She  spins  on  swiftly  and  steadilyj) 
[Curtain  falls.] 

Scene  II.,  1876. 

An  elegantly  furnished  apartment.  Marian  Eutasia,  a 
fashionable  young  lady  of  the  present  day,  seated  in  an 
easy  chair.  She  yawns,  then  recites  (or  sings)  in  tone  to 
iuit  the  words.  The  chorus  gives  the  refrain  in  a  spirii 
of  mockery  or  ridicule. 

Eukuia. — I  wonder  what  I'll  do 

This  dreary  evening  through? 

No  theatre  or  ball, 

No  company,  large  or  small. 

Invites  me  to  go  out. 

The  novels  are  all  done, 

I've  read  them  every  one; 


THE   SPIRIT   OF    LIBERTY. 

They're  full  of  prosy  stuff, 
With  not  half  love  enough 
To  compass  them  about. 
Chorus. — She  hasn't  love  enough. 
But  only  prosy  stuff. 

<Lutasia. — I  might  some  thought  inelosB 
lu  petals  of  a  rose, 
Or  weave  into  a  seam 
The  mystery  of  some  dream. 
My  handiwork  to  show; 
But  where  would  be  the  use? 
Genius  is  so  profuse 
With  all  his  lavish  gifts, 
Fame  lodges  but  in  drifts 
On  those  he  best  doth  know. 
Chorus. — Fame  lodges  but  in  drift* 
With  all  his  lavish  gifts. 

Eutasia. — I  wish  I'd  lived  before ! 

A  hundred  years  or  more. 
Talents  were  rare  and  pure, 
And  critics  more  demure. 
I  might  have  shone  a  star. 
People  could  labor  then, 
But  seldom  drive  a  pen  ; 
Could  work  and  be  content 
Until  their  lives  were  spent, 
Nor  think  of  journeying  far. 
Chorus. — We  wish  she'd  lived  before^ 
A  hundred  years  or  more. 

Eutaeia. — This  is  a  restless  age, 

Each  year  a  crowded  page ; 


m 


CO  THE  SPIRIT    OF   LIBERTY. 

The  people  run  to  brains 
And  groau  with  aches  and  pains. 
*Tis  sad  it  must  be  so. 
I  long  that  I  may  see 
Withiu  tliis  century- 
Some  vision  of  the  past. 
Some  form  of  ancient  cast 
To  cheer  me  as  I  go. 
Chorus. — The  people  run  to  brains 

And  groan  with  aches  and  paina. 

(^She  ceases,  leans  back  in  her  luxurious  arm-chair,  an^ 
tleeps.  Enter  Martha  in  the  garb  we  saw  her  last,  attended 
by  several  elegantly  attired  young  ladies  of  the  present  day. 
who  constituted  the  concealed  chorus.  The  ladies  assi^ 
Martha  noiselessly  to  an  elevated  seat  and  kneel  at  her  fed 
reciting  or  singing) — 

Queen,  we  are  worshipers 
At  thy  fair  shrine. 

(Marian  wakes  and  gazes  curiously  at  the  tableatus,) 

Queen,  we  are  worsliipers 
Whilst  thou  recline. 

We  of  this  century 

Give  reverence  due. 
We  of  this  century 

Our  praise  renew. 

(^Marian  rises  and  kneels  with  the  others,  Jmning  in  iK 
9ong.) 

Queen,  we  are  worshipers 

At  thy  fair  shrine. 
Queen,  we  are  worshipers 
Whilst  thou  recline. 


TRAPPED.  61 

Thank  thee  that  liberty 

Came  to  us  free ! 
Thank  thee  for  liberty, 

Our  legacy  I 

Queen,  we  are  worshipers 

At  thy  fair  shrine- 
Queen,  we  are  worshipers 

Whilst  thou  recline. 

We  of  this  century 

Give  reverence  due. 
We  of  this  century 
Our  praise  renew. 
[Curtain  falls.] 

Mrs.  S,  L.  Oberholtzkb 


TRAPPED. 

A  COMEDY   IN    ONE    ACT. 
CHARACTERS. 

Dick  Roy,  aged  twenty-one  years. 
Janet  Roy,  his  sister,  aged  twenty -three  years. 
Nellie  Taylor,  his  sweetheart,  aged  twenty  years. 
Sarah,  a  servant. 

Bcawfi. — A  cozy  little  breakfast  room.  Table  in  centre  sex 
for  breakfast ;  desk  or  table  at  right,  lounge  or  sofa  at  left. 
Entrances  right  and  left.  Window  at  back  covered  by  a  cur- 
tain. Dick  Roy  discovered  seated  at  desk  with  pajyers  be- 
fore him.  Holds  up  letter  he  has  just  finished  tvritinp 
and  looks  at  it  critically.  Then  in  pantomime  compares  it 
with  another  folded  letter  which  he  takes  up  from  the  desk. 

Dick. — ^A  nice  way  to  begin  a  man's  career,  I'm  sure 
Forgery.     Well,  well,  it's  in  a  good  cause  and  nobody's 


62  TRAPPED. 

name  has  been  forged  but  my  sister's,  and  I  am  sure  sht. 
won't  mind.  \_Leaning  over  and  putting  a  mark  on  one  of  the, 
letters.^  Ah !  that  robs  my  act  of  its  criminal  character. 
Beneath  Janet's  name  I  put  my  own  initial,  so  small  that 
nobody  would  ever  notice  it,  to  be  sure,  but  the  loop  of  the 
R  is  big  enough  for  one  to  crawl  through.  \_Rings  hell  Jor 
servant  and  then  jmts  letter  in  addressed  envelope.l 

(Enter  Sarah,  L.) 

Dick. — Sarah,  I  wish  you  would  have  this  letter  de- 
livered by  messenger  immediately.  It  is  for  Miss  Taylor, 
you  see,  and  she  only  lives  a  few  blocks  away. 

Sarah. — All  right,  sir.  Will  you  have  your  breakfast 
now,  sir,  or  wait  for  Miss  Janet? 

Dick. — I'll  wait.  Sarah. 

Sarah. — As  you  please,  sir.  And  here's  that  you  may 
have  many  more  birthdays,  sir. 

Dick. — Thank  you,  Sarah ;  thank  you.  And  you'll  never 
be  afraid  of  burglars  or  ghosts  any  more  now,  will  you, 
since  there's  a  man  in  the  house  ? 

Sarah  {laughing). — Never  again,  sir.  But  you  don't 
look  a  bit  more  of  a  man  than  you  did  yesterday,  sir. 

Dick. — But  I  am,  Sarah — I  am,  you  know.  I'm  twenty- 
one  to-day,  and  a  man  and  a  voter. 

Sarah. — So  you  are,  sir.     \_Exit,  L."] 

Dick. — And  a  lover,  I  might  have  added,  for  there's  na 
mistaking  I"m  in  love  with  that  little  witch,  Nellie  Taylor, 
bless  her  !  Though  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't  tell  whether 
she  cares  a  Avhit  more  for  me  than  she  does  for  the  other 
fellows  she  smiles  on,  and  she  smiles  on  them  all  with  an 
impartiality  that  is  simply  exasperating.  Jolly  girl !  I  sup- 
pose she  hasn't  heard  I've  been  home  with  a  cold  for  the 
last  week  or  she'd  have  been  around  here.  I  nwy  flatter 
myself,  but  I  think  she  would. 


TRAPrEC.  68 

(Enter  Jane^  ^*y>  L.) 

Janet. — Good-morniug,  Dick.     IMany  happy  returns. 

Dick. — Good-morning,  Jean,  and  thank  you.  If  I  were 
q,  girl  I'd  make  a  curtsy,  but  I'm  a  man  and  can't — and 
a  hungry  man,  too,  feeling  much  l>etter  than  for  a  week 
past,  and  ready  to  wrestle  with  a  good,  substantial  break- 
fast. 

Janet  (sitting  down  at  the  table). — For  all  of  which  I 
am  more  than  thankful,  my  dear  brother.  Come,  let  us 
see  if  we  can't  diminish  that  appf'tite  somewhat.  {Ringing 
bell.'] 

£)ick. — With  all  my  heart.  '[Joining  Janet  at  the  table. 
Enter  SaraJi,  L.,  with  breakfast,  coffee-urn,  etc.,  which  she 
places  on  the  table,  and  then  takes  two  letters  from  her  pocket, 
which  she  hands  to  Janet  and  goes  out,  L."] 

Janet  (after  glancing  at  the  sujjerscrijjtioii). — Here  is  a 
letter  for  you,  sir,  if  your  nano  be  Horatio !  [Reaching 
letter  across  table  to  Dick.] 

Dick. — But  my  name  is  not  Horatio.  [  Taking  it.']  Are 
you  aware  that  to  paraphrase  is  pfirfectly  allowable  ?  "If 
your  name  be  Richard  "  would  be  muck  more  appropriate 
and  would  sound  far  better.  Look,  for  instance,  at  the 
Third  Witch — glorious  example  for  all  paraphrasers — 
who,  on  hearing  a  trumpet  sound  when  the  Unee  call  for  a 
drum,  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  exclaim :  "  A  trumpet ! 
a  trumpet !  Macbeth  doth  stump  it!" 

(Ja7iet  vieanwhile  has  torn  o])en  her  letter,  which  <is  biack 
bordered,  and  has  drawn  out  the  inclosure  with  consider abh' 
agitation.  She  reads  it  through  and  her  face  assumes  a  sad- 
dened expression.) 

i)?"c^-.— What's  the  matter? 

Janet. — Uncle  Arthur  is  dead. 

Dick.—Uncle  Arthur  1  Uncle  Arthur  1  Let's  see.  Unci* 


64  TRAPPED. 

Arthur  is  one  of  my  respected  great-uncles,  whom  I  hayf 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing — a  California  million- 
aire. I  wonder  did  it  ever  strike  him  that  a  little  of  his 
wealth  would  be  acceptable  to  his  great-niece  and  great 
nephew,  who  are  battling  with  the  world  far  away  ovei 
here  in  the  East. 

Janet. — O  Dick !  How  can  you  talk  of  the  poor  man'? 
money  when  he  is  just  dead? 

Dick  (laughing.') — Poor  man  !  I  always  thought  he  wa^ 
a  rich  one. 

Janet. — I  suppose  he  was,  but  then  you  need  have  nq 
thought  of  any  legacy.  I  expect  he  has  left  everything  to 
his  daughter,  Margaret,  and  her  son,  Harry. 

Dick. — Oh,  of  course  there  is  no  such  good  luck  for  me 
as  getting  money  that  I  haven't  worked  for.  \_Mea,nwhil( 
he  has  opened  his  own  letter,  which  he  noiv  j)roceeds  to 
read.} 

Janet. — May  I  inquire  what  Nell  has  to  say  this  morn- 
ing ?_ 

Dick  {after  a  pause). — How  do  you  know  it  is  from 
Nell? 

Janet. — I  know  her  handwriting. 

Dick. — But  it's  just  like  hundreds  of  others.  [Putting 
ihe  letter  in  his  pocket.']  All  ladies  write  in  the  same  style 
aowadays.     The  letters  are  all  very  tall  and  all  very  thin, 

Janet. — Each  lady's  hand  has  a  peculiarity,  neverthc' 
less. 

Dick. — Which  nobody  can  deny !  Some  hands  are  pink 
Und  some  are  white,  some  are  fat  and  some  are  lean,  some 
wear  diamonds  and  some  Avear  none. 

Janet. — How  you  trip  one  up!  You  know  very  well 
svhat  I  mean.  Would  you  have  me  stumble  over  the 
whole  length  of  chirography  every  time? 


TRAPPED.  6S 

Dick. — By  no  means.  It  would  only  be  a  waste  of 
breath. 

Janet. — By  the  bye,  speaking  of  some  hands  with  dia- 
monds and  some  without,  Nell  doesn't  wear  one,  does  she? 
When  do  you  propose  presenting  her  with  one  of  those 
gems. 

Dick. — I  was  not  aware  that  young  men  are  generally 
expected  to  provide  their  lady  friends  with  diamond 
rings. 

Janet. — Did  the  fact  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an 
engagement  ring  ever  dawn  upon  your  enlightened  Intel- 
lect? 

Dkk. — Engagement !  Did  I  understand  you  to  say  en- 
gagement ?  Since  when,  pray,  did  you  conclude  that  your 
respected  brother  had  given  his  heart  to  another  ?  I  know 
of  no  engagement. 

Janet. — Oh  !  dear.  Have  I  really  been  mistaken  ?  And 
here  I  was  already  congratulating  myself  on  so  soon  hav- 
ing a  sister-in-law ! 

Dick. — Do  you  remember  the  old  rhyme  : 
"  Can  the  love  that  you're  so  rich  in 
Build  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  ? 

Or  the  little  god  of  love  turn  the  spit,  spit,  spit?" 
I  should  hesitate,  I  think,  to  ask  any  one  to  marry  me 
for  fear  of  having  that  couplet  thrown  in  my  face.  Now, 
If  that  dear  old  great-uncle  of  ours  had  only  taken  it  into 
his  aged  head  to  leave  us  a  few  of  his  many  thousands, 
then  perhaps  I  might  think  of  engagements  and  diamond 
rings  and  mothers-in-law,  and  you  might  begin  to  speculate 
Dn  the  comparative  advantages  of  my  various  lady  friends 
OS  sisters-in-law. 

Janet. — Poor,  dear  old  man  !  I  can  just  remember  sit- 
ting on  hie  knee  and  playing  with  his  long  beard  at  th« 


6C 


TRAPPED. 


time  he  was  on  from  the  We,st.  It's  i-cally  a  shame,  Dick, 
our  beiug  so  lively,  and  Uncle  Arthur,  graudfather's  own 
brother,  lying  dead. 

Dick. — Well,  my  dear,  I  should  be  lying  alive  if  I  said 
I  was  sorry  he's  gone;  for  while  there's  death  there's  hope, 
and  who  knows  but  he  may  have  thought  of  us?  You 
know,  Jean,  I  never  saw  the  old  gentleman,  and  it's  not  to 
be  expected  I  shall  be  awfully  cut  up  over  his  shuffling  ofl 
this  mortal  coil ;  but,  I  say,  if  you  really  feel  sad  about  it, 
you'd  better  go  down  town  immediately  and  buy  a  black 
alpaca  dress  and  a  long  crape  veil. 

Janet. — O  Dick ! 

(Enter  Sarah  with  yelloxv  envelojye  in  her  hand,  L.') 

Sarah. — I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Dick,  but  I  find 
1  entirely  forgot  to  give  you  this  letter,  which  I  just  dis- 
covered in  my  pocket.     It  came  in  the  morning  mail,  sir. 

Dick  (taking  the  letter).— AW  right,  Sarah.  Let's  see 
what  it  is.  \_Exit  Sarah,  L.  Dick  tears  open  envelope  and 
extracts  letter.  As  he  reads  his  face  brightens.']  Hurrah  I 
Hurrah  for  Uncle  Arthur !  Hurrah,  Jean,  we've  been 
left  a  fortune ! 

Janet  (disbelieving'). — If  you  must  joke,  Dick,  pray  don't 
take  such  a  subject. 

Dick. — But  I'm  not  joking;  it's  a  fact.  Here  is  a  letter 
from  the  dear  old  man's  lawyer.  Look  at  the  postmark ; 
look  at  the  letter-head ;  read  the  message.  [ife  goei 
around  to  her  and  spreads  the  letter  before  her.~\  There, 
read.     \_Reads.'] 

"  Richard  Roy,  Esq.  :  Dear  Sir  : — I  have  pleasure  in 
informing  you  that  the  will  of  the  late  Arthur  Roy,  Esq., 
of  this  city,  bequeaths  to  his  great-nephew  and  great-niece, 
Eichard  and  Janet  Roy  (yourself  and  sister),  each  the  sum 


TRAPPED.  6T 

of  fifty  thousand  dollars.  These  amounts  are  invested  in 
United  States  Government  bonds  and  shall  be  forwarded 
to  you  in  due  course. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be  your  obedient  servant, 

"  J.  Madison  Perry,  Executor." 

Jaiiet. — Poor  Uncle  Arthur!  [_Then  she  breaks  into  sobs 
and  buries  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  weeping.'] 

Dick  (smoothing  her  /iatr).^What  is  tlie  matter  with 
you '?  I  can't  see  anything  to  cry  about.  You  seem  rather 
mixed  on  the  question  of  the  time  to  laugh  and  the  time  to 
weep. 

Janet  (between  her  sobs). — O  Dick!  I  believe  you 
have  no  feeling  at  all.  Just  to  think  what  a  dear,  kind 
uncle  we  have  lost.     How  good  of  him  to  remember  us ! 

Dick. — Very  good  of  him  indeed,  sister  mine,  but  I  can't 
Bee  that  that  ought  to  make  one  sad.  Rather  a  cause  for 
rejoicing,  I  should  say.  Poor  fellow  he  was  so  old  he 
couldn't  enjoy  life,  and  I  dare  say  he's  better  off  where  he 
is — that  is,  if  he  was  as  good  as  his  will  makes  me  think  he 
was.  But  never  mind,  dear,  go  to  your  room  and  have 
your  cry  out. 

Janet  (rising  and  going  out). — 0  Dick!  If  you  love 
me,  please  don't  joke  about  it,  for  I  really  do  feel  terribly. 
[Exit,  R.l 

Dick  (resuming  his  seat  at  the  desk). — Poor  girl,  she  is 
rather  cut  up,  but  I  am  sure  I'm  not.  I  may  naturally  be 
iight-hearted,  and  to  leave  me  fifty  thousand  dollars  is  not 
exactly  the  way  to  make  rae  melancholy  and  sad.  [J.  ring 
is  heard,  as  of  a  door  bell.}  Ah !  ten  to  one  that's  Nell. 
Now,  Dicky,  old  boy,  hide  yourself  and  prepare  for  action. 
[Gets  behind  curtcun  of  window  at  hack.  Sarah  goes 
through,  entering  one  door,  L.,  and  going  out  of  the  other,  i?.] 

Dick  (poking  his  head  j)om  between  curtains.) — In  thi'ee 


68 


TRAPPED 


minutes  I  shall  know  whether  Nell  Taylor  loves  me  or  not, 
provided  my  little  scheme  don't  miscarry,  of  which  I  have 
hopes  it  won't. 

{Enter  /Sarah,  li.,  followed  by  Nellie  Taylor,  who  s/wwe 
signs  of  weeping  and  now  and  then  wipes  her  eyes.) 

Nellie. — Please  tell  Miss  Janet  I  would  like  to  see  her, 

Sarah. — Yes,  miss;  and  you'll  excuse  the  breakfast 
table,  miss,  won't  you?  I  haven't  had  time  to  clear  the 
things  away,  as  you  see. 

Nellie. — O!  certainly,  Sarah  ;  certainly.  [Exit  Sarah,  R. 
Nellie  sits  on  lounge.'] 

Nellie  (solil.). — And  there  was  where  poor,  dear  Dick 
used  to  eat  [looking  at  table].  How  on  earth  could  Janet 
swallow  a  mouthful  this  morning,  I  wonder?  I'm  sure  I 
could  not.  The  sad  news  took  my  appetite  every  bit  away. 
And  there  are  two  places.  I  suppose  his  aunt  or  somebody 
is  here. 

{Enter  Janet,  R.,  with  red  eyes  and  like  Nellie,  using  hand- 
kerchief.    Nellie  rises  and  goes  to  her.) 

Nellie. — O  Jean  !  I  do  so  sympathize  with  you.  \_Dick 
looks  out  from  curtains  and  grins.']  Come  and  sit  down  by 
me.  Trouble  comes  to  all  of  us  some  time,  you  know. 
[Both  go  to  sofa  and  sit  dotvn.] 

Janet. — But,  my  dear  Nell — 

Nellie. — There,  now,  don't  speak  to  me  of  it.  Don't  tell 
toe  how  much  worse  you  feel  than  I.  I  know  you  think 
BO ;  but,  indeed  [tveeping],  you  do  not  know  how  I  loved 
him! 

(Dick  makes  grimaces  of  delight  from  curtain.) 

Janet  (aside). — Perhaps  Uncle  Arthur  was  related  to 
the  Taylors.     \_Aloud].  Was  he — 

Nellie. — Didn't  you  know  it  ?  Oh !  why  didn't  some  one 
let  me  know  that  he  was  so  ill?  I  would  have  so  liked  to 
be  with  him. 


TRAPPED.  el 

Dich  {from  curtain). — Jean  must  think  she  was  very  fond 
of  Uncle  Arthur.     Ha,  ha !    Grim  sort  of  a  joke,  ain't  it? 

Janet. — "Was  he  so  very  dear  to  you  ? 

Nellie. — O  Jean !  you  cannot  imagine  how  we  loved 
each  other.  There  was  no  time  set,  but  then  it  was  under- 
stood that  it  was  to  come  ofi"  as  soon  as  his  salary  was  suf- 
ficient for  him  to — 

Janet. — What  do  you  mean  ?     What  was  to  come  off? 

Nellie. — We  were  engaged,  you  know. 

Janet  {surprised). — Engaged  ! 

Nellie. — Did  you  not  know  it  ? 

Janet. — Nell,  what  are  you  talking  about? 

Nellie. — Are  you  angry  ?  Would  you  not  have  approved 
of  his  making  me  his  wife  ? 

Janet. — You  marry  Uncle  Arthur ! 

Nellie  {in  surprise). — Uncle  Arthur!  Who  is  Uncle 
Arthur  ? 

Janet. — The  dear,  kind  old  gentleman  who  kas  just 
died. 

Nellie. — But  I  have  been  talking  of  Dick.  You  must 
have  known  I  was.  Poor,  dear  Dick !  [^Falls  to  weeping 
again.l 

Janet. — But  Dick  is  not  dead. 

Nellie  (risijig  to  her  feet  in  glad  surprise). — Not  dead? 

Dick  {coming  from  behind  the  curtain). — No,  you  darliug, 
good  girl ;  now  I  believe  you  do  care  a  little  bit  for  me. 

Janet. — But  I  cannot  understand  it.  Whatever  could 
have  caused  you  to  think  Dick  was  dead  ? 

Nellie. — The  idea  of  asking  me  after  the  letter  you  wrote. 
Didn't  you  tell  me  so?  I  didn't  think,  Jean,  that  you 
could  perpetrate  such  an  awful  joke. 

Janet. — But  I  wrote  no  letter. 

{Nellie  draws  a  letter  from  her  pocket  and  hands  it  t* 
•Janet.) 


70  TRAPPED. 

Nellie. — Read  it. 

Janet  {reading).—  "  Friday  Morning. 

"My  Dear  Nell. — I  have  sad  news  for  you.  Oui 
darling  boy  is  no  more.  At  twelve  o'clock  last  niglit  lie 
breathed  his  last.  Oh,  how  can  I  write  it?  I  can  scarcely 
realize  that  he  is  gone.  Please  do  come  around  and  see 
me.  I  know  you  thought  a  great  deal  of  him  and  can 
sympathize  with  me.  "  Ever  yours, 

"Janet  Roy." 

[^^eakingl. — But  it  is  not  my  writing.  I  never  make 
my  e's  that  way,  nor  sign  myself  "  ever  yours." 

Nellie. — It  is  very  like  your  writing,  and  I  saw  the 
windows  bowed.     Who  could  have  written  it  if  you  didn't? 

Dick  (with  some  pride). — I  am  the  author.  It  was  a 
little  trap,  and  it  worked  admirably — far  better  than  1 
expected. 

Nellie  and  Janet  {in  chorus). — You  awful  boy  I 

Dick. — The  boy  is  dead ! 

Nellie. — But  what  a  frightful  story  you  told,  and  how 
terribly  I  was  worried ! 

Dick. — It  is  all  true.  There  is  not  an  untruth  in  the 
whole  letter.  The  boy  is  no  more ;  the  boy  did  breathe  his 
last.     I  am  a  man  now.     This  is  my  twenty-first  birthday. 

Janet. — But  you  forged  my  name. 

Dick. — But  I  put  my  initial  below  it  [pointing  to  the 
place'],  as  you  will  notice.  And  [turning  to  Nell]  our  wed- 
ding will  be  just  as  soon  as  you  can  get  ready.  The  in- 
terest of  fifty  thousand  dollars,  which  you  must  know  the 
puzzling  Uncle  Arthur  just  left  me,  plus  my  salary,  is  all 
sufficient,  isn't  it  ?  And  I  say,  Jean,  how  do  you  like  the 
prospect  of  a  sister-in-law  ?     I  trapped  her,  didn't  I  ? 

Nellie. — And  she  was  glad  to  be  trapped. 

[CURTAIN.J 


THE   RAILWAY   MATINEE.  71 

THE  RAILWAY  MATINEE. 
Arranged  by  Marguerite  W.  Morton. 


CHARACTEKS. 

Miss  Precision. 

Roareb. 

Fogg,  a  deaf  old  gentleman. 

Hesitation. 

Brakeman. 

Scene. — Interior  of  a  railway  car.  Several  passengert 
seated.  As  the  curtain  rises,  the  sound  of  the  whistle  ana 
the  noise  of  the  train  just  starting  are  heard.  Ent&t 
Jtoarer  at  hack  of  car.  Tlie  other  passengers,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Fogg,  turn  to  look  at  him.  He  nods  plea^santl^ 
to  all  and  seats  himself  opposite  Hesitation. 
Fogg  (disturbed  by  the  commotion  and  thinking  himself 

addressed). — Hey?       \_All  start    nervously   and  speak   to- 
gether.'] 

Roarer. — I  wa'n't  a  sayin'  nauthin'. 

Hesitation. — I-I-I  d-d-d-dud-dud-didn't  s-s-say  n-n-nutli- 

Quthing. 

Miss    Precision. — I    said    nothing,    sir.       \^With    great 

dignity.'] 

Other  Passengers. — I  didn't  say  nothing. 

Fogg  (addressing  Hesitation,  defiantly). — Wha'  say? 

Hesitation. — I-I-I-I  w-w-w-wuh-wuh-wasn'-wasn' — 1  wasn' 

s-s-sp-speak — 

Fogg. — Hey?    ILouder.] 

Roarer. — He  wa'n't  sayin'  nauthin'I     He  aint  opened 

his  mouth. 
Fogg.— Soap  in  the  South  ?     Wha'  for  ? 
Miss  Precision  (very  distinctly). — Mouth!     Mouth!     He 

eaid  "  opened  hi.s  mouth."     The  gentleman  seated  directly 

opposite  you  was — 
i<o^y.— -Offers  to  chew  what? 


72  THE    RAILWAY    MA.TINEK. 

Miss  Preeiaion. — Sir,  I  made  no  reference  whatever  to 
chewing.     You  certainly  misunderstood  me. 

Hediation. — I-I-I-I  d-d-d-dud-d-d-dud-dud-don't  ch-cb 
ch— 

Fogg. — Hey  ?    [  Very  loud.'] 

Roarer. — He  don't  chew  nauthin'.  He  wa*n*t  a  talkin' 
when  you  shot  off  at  him. 

Fogg.—W\iO  got  off?    Wha'  d'  he  get  off  for? 

Miss  Precision. — You  don't  appear  to  comprehend  clearly 
what  he  stated.     No  person  has  left  the  train. 

Fogg. — Then  wha'  d'  he  say  so  for  ? 

Hesitation. — Oh,  he  d-d-dud-dud-did-did — 

i^o^^.— Who  did  ? 

Hesitation. — Num-num-num-num-n-no-noboby  I  He-he- 
he  dud-did-d-d-d-didn't — didn't  s-s — 

Fogg. — Then  wha'  made  you  say  he  did  ? 

Miss  Precision. — You  misunderstood  him.  He  was 
probably  about  to  remark  that  no  reference  whatever  had 
been  intentionally  made  to  the  departure  of  any  person 
from  the  train,  when  you  interrupted  him  in  the  midst  of 
an  unfinished  sentence,  and  hence  obtained  an  erroneous 
impression  of  the  tenor  of  his  remarks.  He  meant  no 
offense — 

Fogg. — Know  a  fence?  Of  course  I  know  a  fence! 
Know  a  fence?     Wha'  d'  you  take  me  for? 

Roarer. — He  ain't  got  middlin'  good  hearin'.  Y'ears 
kind  o'  stuffed  up ! 

Fogg. — Time  to  brush  up ?     Wha' for? 

Miss  Precision. — No !  no !  He  remarked  to  the  other  gen 
tleman  that  your  hearing  appeared  to  be  rather  defective. 

Fogg. — His  father  a  detective  ?     Huh  ! 

Hesitation. — N-n-n-n-nun-nun-nun-no !  H-h-h-h-he  shsc 
«ftid  you  w-w-w-wuh-was  a  little  d-d-d-dud-dud-deaf  I 


THE  RAILWAY   MATINEE.  T8 

Fogg'  {springing  to  his  feet). — Said  I  was  a  tliief!  Said  I 
was  a  tliief!  Wha'  d'ye  mean  ?  Show  him  to  me !  Who 
Bays  I  am  a  thief?     Who  says  so? 

Roarer. — Nobody  don't  say  you  ain't  no  thief.  I  just 
said  as  how  we  didn't  get  along  very  well.  You  see  h@ 
[pointing  to  Hesitationl  can't  talk  very  well,  an' — 

Hesitation. — Wh-wh-wh-why  c-c-cau-can't  I  t-t-t-tut-tut' 
tut-talk?  I-I-I-I'd  like  t-to  know  wh-wh-wh-what's  the 
reason  I  c-c-can-cau't  t-t-t-tut-tut-talk  as  w-w-well  as  any 
bub-bub-body  that's  bub-bub-been  tut-tut-talking  on  this 
c-c-car  ever  s-s-since  the  t-t-tut-tut-train — 

Fogg  (suspiciously). — Hey  ? 

Roarer. — I  was  sayiu'  as  how  he  didn't  talk  middlin' 
well,  au' — 

Fogg. — Should  say  so  !    \_Seating  himself.'] 

Roarer. — And  you  know  you  cau't  hear  only  tollable — 

Fogg. — Can't  hear!  Can't  hear!  Like  to  know  why  I 
can't  hear!  Why  can't  I  ?  Can't  hear!  If  I  couldn't  hear 
better  than  half  the  people  on  this  train,  I'd  cut  off  my 
ears.  Can't  hear?  It's  news  to  me  if  I  can't!  I'd  like  to 
know  who — 

Brakennan  (at  door). — Burlington !  Change  cars  for 
Keokuk,  Ceed  Rap's,  an'  For'  Mad'son!  This  car  fi 
Omaha?  Tweu'  minuts  f'r  supper! 

(Several  passengers  grasp  their  valises,  etc.,  and  prejmrQ 
to  leave  the  car.  Fogg  and  Hesitation  shake  their  fists  at 
Roarer  and  talk  together.) 

Fogg. — Can't  hear  I  Can't  hear  I  Like  to  know  why  J 
can't  hear. 

Hedtation. — C-c-can-can't   t-t-t-tut-tut-talk  I  Wh-wh-wb 
why  c-o-can-can't  I  t-t-t-t-tut-tut-tut-talk  ? 
[Quick  curtain.] 

r.  j.  burdettb. 


T4  M.    CHANGED    HOUSEWIFE, 

A  CHANGED  HOUSEWIFE. 

CHAEACTERS. 

Jbkusha,  a  tidy  housewife.  Leo,    )  ^^^  g^^jj^^ 

Jekemiah,  her  liusband.  FuNG,i 

Mis3  Philantheopy,  a  book  agent. 

Scene  I. 

An  ordinary  country  sitting-room. 

Jeruslm  {sweeping  and  moving  the  furniture  that  lier  worX 
he  thoroughly  done). — There's  no  use  trying  to  keep  any- 
thing in  order  in  this  house  with  three  careless  creatures 
running  in  and  out  all  the  time.  It's  enough  to  set  a 
decent  womau  crazy  to  see  the  hats  and  coats  fluug  around 
and  have  no  end  to  the  mud  dragged  in.  It's  all  Jere- 
miah's fault!  If  his  mother  had  only  brought  him  up 
differently !  Oh !  dear.  \_She  leans  on  her  broom,  then 
eweeps  away  vigorously. '\ 

(^Enter  Jeremiah.^ 

Jeremiah. — Whew!    You  must  have  the  lungs  of  an  oxl 

Jerusha. — Well,  I  haint  got  the  strength  of  one,  I'd  let 
you  know !  and  I'm  about  tired  of  cleaning  after  you  and 
your  boys ! 

Jeremiah  (^aside). — Seertis  to  be  a  little  riled.  [^Aloud.] 
Take  it  cool,  Jerusha.  Everything  is  made  of  dust,  and  us 
to  boot. 

Jerusha  (holding  the  door  open  with  her  broom). — Take 
it  cool  yourself!  and  clean  your  boots  before  you  come 
into  this  room  again. 

Jeremiah. — Can't  you  leave  the  floors  alone,  and  not  be 
forever  stirring  up  the  dirt  ? 

Jerusha  (sharply). — No,  I  can't!  You'll  not  wade  knee* 
deep  while  I'm  your  wife,  if  you  are  so  fond  of  it. 


A  CHANGED   HOUSEWIFK.  75 

Jeremiah  (half  aside). — I  may's  well  go  somewhere  till 
the  dust  settles. 

Jer-usha. — Do,  for  pity's  sake,  go  somewhere  and  stay 
till  dinner  time!    \_Exit  Jeremiah.'] 

i^Enter  Leo  hurriedly,  holding  a  cut  finger  of  one  hand 
tightly  in  the  palm  of  the  other.) 

Leo. — Get  me  a  rag — quick,  mother! 

Jermha. — You  good-for-uotliiug,  careless  creature,  to  cut 
your&elf.  There  !  Look  at  your  feet — all  over  mud.  You're 
enough  to  provoke  a  saint!  I  may  slave  and  clean  from 
morning  till  night,  and  this  is  the  thanks  I  get. 

Leo. — Won't  you  tie  up  my  finger,  mother  ?    It  bleeds  so. 

Jerusha. — Yes,  I  s'pose  so.  For  pity's  sake  don' t  let  the 
blood  drop  on  the  floor.  Run  out-doors,  and  I'll  bring 
a  rag.     \^Exit  Ijco.] 

Jerusfuc. — There's  no  getting  to  do  anything  in  peace! 
\_Snatches  up  a  bit  of  muslin  from  some  convenient  place  and 
goes  ouf] 

(^Enter  Fling,  from  the  other  side,  whistling  **  Get  out  oj 
the  Wilderness  "  and  dancing  a  jig  to  it.) 

Jerusha  (calling). — Get  out  of  there,  Fling,  and  stop  that 


noise 


{Fling  whistles  and  dances  more  softly. ) 

Jerusha  {entering). — Where's  the  use  of  any  living 
woman  having  such  a  worthless  boy  ?  Didn't  you  hear — 
I  said,  get  out  and  be  still !  Here  one  boy  cuts  his  finger 
nearly  ofi",  and  another  is  fit  to  tear  the  house  down! 
There's  no  use  trying  to  live! 

Fling  (sxibsiding). — Where's  Leo  ?  Is  he  hurt  ? 

Jerusha. — Be  sure  he's  hurt,  or  I  wouldn't  a  said  so. 

(Enter  Leo,  with  his  finger  clothed  in  a  large  rag,  around 
%ohi/'h  he  is'  wrapping  a  string  with  his  other  hand.) 

Fling  (going  forward). — Halloa,  Leo!  How'd  you  get 
burt.  old  fellow  ? 


To  A    CHANGED    HOUSEWIFE. 

Leo. — Cut  with  the  hatchet,  making  a  new  latch  for  the 
barn  door. 

Jermha. — A  likely  story !  Why  can't  your  father  make 
the  latches  himself?  Here,  let  me  tie  it  [turning  to 
the  finger],  you're  too  miserably  awkward.  [She  windi 
the  string  tightly.'] 

Leo. — Ouch  !     That  hurts. 

Jerusha. — There !  Don't  be  a  baby !  Now,  what  you're 
going  to  do  with  yourselves  till  noon  I  don't  know. 

Fling. — Can't  we  have  a  game  of  chess,  or  some  fun  ? 
I'll  run  up  and  get  the  chessboard.       [Turjiing  to  go  out] 

Jerusha. — I'll  have  no  such  wicked  nonsense  in  my 
house  and — [exit  Fling.  Calling  after  hhn.]  Take  ofl 
your  boots  if  you  go  up-stairs !  [To  Leo.]  I  can't  stand 
this  life  much  longer.  It's  wear  and  tear  and  clean  till 
I  go  down  to  the  grave,  and  where's  the  recompense  ? 

Leo. — I  reckon  you'll  have  to  count  Fling  and  I  on 
that  side. 

Jerusha. — A  couple  of  disobedient,  spoiled  boys.  A 
pretty  recompense !  Fling's  enough  to  set  anybody  wild, 
and  you're  forever  getting  upset. 

(Enter  Fling,  xvith  hoots  off,  hearing  a  set  of  dominoes.') 

Fling. — Halloa,  Leo,  here's  a  set  of  dominoes !  We'll 
have  a  game  here.  You  won't  care,  mother,  will  you  ?  We'll 
be  awful  quiet. 

Jerusha. — Awful  quiet!  Didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  have  none 
of  your  carrying  on  ?  [J/i  a  louder  tone.]  I  must  clean 
up  my  house  and  keep  it  decent  if  you  drive  me  crazy ! 

Fling  (to  Leo). — Let's  go  down  to  Beck's !  They  ain't  so 
ftwful  decent — or,  hold  on,  how's  your  finger? 

Leo. — Able  to  travel.     [Exit  Leo  and  Fling.] 

(Jerusha  resumes  her  work  of  cleaning.  A  rcep  at  the 
doer.) 


A   CHANGKD    HOUSEWIFS.  77 

Jerusha  (aloud). — Come  in!  lAside.}  If  you  must 
What  a  botheration  ! 

^Enter  Miss  Philanthropy,  hearing  a  small  satchel.) 

Jeruslm  {wiping  tlie  dust  from  a  chair  with  her  apron^ 
presents  it). — Have  a  seat,  will  you  ? 

Miss  P.  (accepting). — Thanks!  This  is  a  beautiful 
spring  day. 

Jermha. — Perhaps  it  is.     I  haint  had  time  to  look  it 

up- 

Miss  P. — The  sun  would  stream  in  at  your  window  if 

you  raised  the  curtain. 

Jerusha  (emphatically). — I  don't  raise  my  curtains  and 
let  the  sun  fade  my  carpets. 

Miss  P. — Forgive  me,  I  meant  no  offense.  {Undoing 
her  satchel  and  taking  therefrom  a  book.l  Here  is  a  little 
work  on  Light  and  Temperance,  madam,  I  am  agent  for. 
Will  you  look  at  it? 

Jerusha. — No,  I  haint  no  time  to  bother  with  it.  Be* 
eides,  I  can't  see  without  my  specs.  These  subscription 
books  is  swindles,  any  way.  Jeremiah  and  the  boys  has 
wasted  lots  of  money  on  'em. 

Miss  P. — This  is  a  valuable  book,  madam.  I  have 
sold  a  thousand  copies.  Where  are  your  husband  and 
Bons? 

Jerusha  (snappishly). — I  don't  know  where  they  arel 
They're  mostly  down  at  Beck's  saloon  when  they  ain't 
draggiu'  in  dirt  for  me. 

3Iiss  P.  (aside). — The  world  is  a  broad  mission  field. 
[  Turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book  thoughtfully.']  Let  me 
read  you  a  few  verses  from  this  work. 

Jerusha  (rubbing  her  furniture  with  a  duster). — Let 
them  be  short  then !  {Aside.]  I  s'pose  a  body  must  be 
civiL 


78  A    CHANGED   HOUSEWIFE. 

Mise  P.  (reading). — 

For  true  discernment  we  require 

Outward  and  inward  light, 
Suu  rays  and  soul  shine,  that  we  know 

The  day  of  life  from  night. 
There  is  no  sky,  outward  or  in. 

But  has  its  flitting  clouds ; 
There  is  no  air,  though  soft  as  down. 

But  some  dull  mist  enshrouds. 

Who  sees  not  light,  can  feel  the  dark. 

And  darkness  grows  apace. 
One  soul  which  has  a  head-light  lost 

O'ershadows  a  vast  space; 
For,  groping  on  its  blinded  way, 

'Mid  other  flickering  flames. 
It  lends  but  a  benumbing  aid. 

And  ne'er  the  day  proclaims! — 

[pausing  and  looking  tip.] 

Jerusha. — Funeral  hymns,  eh?  Good  enough,  but  1 
haint  no  time  to  learn  'em. 

Mi^s  P. — People  bury  much  of  value  alive.  Listen 
Igain !    [_She  turns  to  another  page  and  reads ;] 

Open  your  houses !  let  the  light  in. 
Let  the  boys  in  with  their  restless  din. 
What  are  your  carpets  and  unscratched  chairs? 
What  are  your  cares  and  delicate  wares  ? 

Make  your  homes  joyful,  jubilant,  gay! 
Labor,  comfort,  enjoy  and  play. 
This  much  do  for  the  temperance  cause ; 
Women  make  better  our  social  laws  I 


A  CHANGED   HOUSEWIPE.  Tl 

Drive  not  your  children  out  in  the  cold. 

But  gather  them  closely  into  the  fold. 

Let  home  be  the  freest  place  of  all ; 

Let  scars  ou  your  furniture,  not  on  them,  fall. 

If  the  dust  lie  thick,  keep  their  hearts  clear , 
Let  home  be  the  place  of  holiest  cheer  I 

Jeru-sha  {icho  at  the  first  mention  of  houMS  had  ceased  kef 
work  to  liden). — A  pretty  doctrine  to  recommend ;  tlw 
banging  up  of  furniture.  Thank  goodness,  my  children  are 
almost  men,  and  they  haven't  left  a  scar  on  nothin'  outside 
the  woodshed.  Now  they're  never  at  home  only  when  they 
sleep  and  eat. 

3fiss  P. — Pardon  me,  but  you  may  live  to  see  the  time 
you  would  prefer  them  here. 

Jeriisha. — I'd  like  to  have  them  well  enough  now, 
if  they'd  be  still  and  cleanly.  That  saloon,  on  the  whol^ 
is  rather  a  bad  place.  I've  half  a  notion  to  read  youi 
book. 

Miss  P. — I  am  glad  to  present  you  with  a  copy.  {^Ruing 
and  handing  it  to  JerushaJ] 

Jerusha  {aocepting). — i  aon't  say  as  you  need  give  it  to 
me. 

JMxss  P. — But  I  wish  to.  I  hope  you  may  see  differently 
and  with  clearer  vision. 

[Curtain   falls.] 

Scene  II. 

The  same  room  in  brighter  keeping.    The  curtain  raised  and 

light  streaming  in.      The  appurtenances  of  labor  out  oj 

sight.   Jerusha,  spectacles  on,  rocking  and  reading  the  book. 
{Enter  Fling.) 

Fling. — Halloa,  mother!  You  UK)k  as  8W«»et  as  pia 
Dare  I  come  in  ? 


iO  A   CHANGED    HOUSEWIFE. 

Jermha. — Certainly,  Fling.  Where's  your  father  and 
Lieo  ? 

Fling  {looking  at  his  hoots,  which  he  attempts  to  pull  off  ).~^ 
Coming.     They  weren't  quite  done  the  game. 

Jerusha. — Never  mind  your  boots,  son.  I  have  a  new 
book. 

Fling  (aside). — I  wonder  how  it  turned  the  tables  on 
boots !  And  the  curtain's  up.  How  jolly !  [He  throws 
himself  down  on  the  lounge.  Aloud.']  It's  enough  nicer 
here  than  down  at  Beck's,  mother !  It's  full  of  tobacco 
smoke  and  whisky  breaths  down  there.  I  wish  a  fellow 
didn't  have  to  go  I 

Jerusha. — You  needn't  go  any  more,  Fling.  I'm  going  to 
let  you  have  your  games  here.     I  want  to  learn  to  play. 

Fling  {pimping  up  and  seizing  her  hand). — Give  us  a 
shake  on  that.     I'll  fj^ach  you  all  the  tricks  of  the  trade. 
{Enter  Leo.) 

Fling. — Halloa,  'Leo,  mother's  going  to  learn  to  play 
chess !  And  what^f  more,  we're  going  to  do  it  here.  [JETa 
commences  to  whiaif^  "  Oct  out  of  the  Wilderness  "  and  dance 
a  jig.] 

Leo. — Hold  up,  Fling!     This  ain't  a  circus. 

Fling  (stops).— I  forgot.     But  it's  some  jolly  good  place. 
{Enter  Jeremiah.) 

Jeremiah. — W)at's  the  clamor,  boys?    Too  much  luckl 

Fling.^^We'rh  the  winners.     Here's  mother. 

Jeremiah. — JlEigh-oh  !     What's  up,  Jerusha  ? 

Jerusha. — -Nothing  particular.     I've  been  reading. 

Jeremiah. — Reading !  That's  a  new  dodge.  Why  don*t 
fou  talk  ?  Liook  at  these  fellows  with  their  boots  on !  And 
we're  late  '^r  dinner. 

Jerusha.  --Dear  Jeremiah,  I  didn't  think  it  was  dinnei 
time. 


A  CHANGED   HOUSEWIFE.  81 

Jeremiah  (aside). — Dear  Jeremiah!  What  ails  the 
woman  ? 

Fling. — We  ain't  hungry,  mother.  Been  eatin'  peanutai 
I  brought  you  some  shelled  and  skinned.  {^Taking  a  hand- 
ful from  hi^  pocket .']     They  make  an  awful  litter,  you  know. 

Jeru-sha  (accepting  the  kernels). — Thank  you,  my  boy  I 
Dear  Jeremiah,  is  Beck's  a  temperance  saloon  ? 

Jeremiah  (aside). — Dear  Jeremiah  again !  She  must  be 
going  to  die.  \^Aloud.'\  No,  'taint  a  temperance  place, 
Jerusha.  Never  was,  as  I  know  on.  What's  your  book, 
that's  so  amazin'  interestin'  you  forget  the  old  tune  of 
cleauJiuess?  [taking  it  from  her  hand]. 

Jerusha. — It  gives  the  blind  sight. 

Jeremiah. — The  coming  millennium,  I  reckon,  where  peo- 
ple crave  books  instead  of  food.  Read  a  chapter,  Leo,  thai 
we  may  judge,     [ieo  takes  the  book,  opens  it,  and  reads:"] 

Men,  who  are  arbiters  of  fate. 

Control  fate  by  your  will  I 
Make  it  your  slave ;  be  masters  strong  I 

Train  it  to  step  and  drill. 

Be  pure,  be  temperate,  true  and  just, 

Loving  and  tender,  too ; 
Then  will  you  ne'er  complain  of  fate 

Or  it  be  false  to  you. 
The  lights  of  earth  are  fame  and  power 

Flickering  in  gilded  lamps ; 
Too  dim  to  cross  the  narrow  stream, 

They  darken  with  death's  damps. 
Home  is  a  haven,  the  one  spot 

Where  love  and  light  may  reign; 
Where  discord  may  be  barred  without 

And  sweetest  peace  remain. 


S'J  OUR  country's  wealth. 

Jeremiah. — Pretty  sound  doctrine,  but  a  little  fanciful,  1 
should  say.    I  believe  in  strict  temperance,  boys. 

Jerusha. — Dear  Jeremiah,  let  us  make  our  home  a  safer 
haven. 

Jeremiah. — I'm  sure  I'm  willin',  if  you  won't  make 
eternal  war  against  dirt  and  noise. 

Fling. — Mother's  going  to  wage  war  quietly,  that's  the 
idea,  and  I'll  dance  on  the  porch.     Hurra !     \_Exit  Fling."] 

Jerusha. — Leo,  son,  lie  down  on  the  lounge.  Jeremiah, 
dear,  take  this  rocker  and  the  book  [^Leo  hands  it  to  Aim] 
while  I  get  dinner.    [^Exit  Jerusha.^ 

Jeremiah  (seating  himself). — The  millennium  is  surely 
come,  and  home  is  Heaven. 

[Curtain  falls.] 

Mrs.  S.  L.  Oberholtzer. 


OUR  COUNTRY'S  WEALTH. 

CHARACTERS. 

Bfx  girls,  to  personify— 1,  Columbia,  dressed  as  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  an<J 

■eaied  on  a  throne;  2,  New  England;  3,  Middle  Atlantic  States;  4,. 
Southern  States;  5,  States  of  the  Mississippi  Valley  ;  6,  Pacific  States, 
All  dressed  in  white. 

Columbia. — Come  hither  toward  me,  my  handmaidens, 
•nd  disclose  to  my  gaze  the  tribute  you  have  to  render  unto 
Be,  for  this  year  of  our  Lord,  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  eighty-five.  How  sayest  thou,  New  England  ?  What 
offerings  bringest  thou?  Group  of  the  Middle  Atlantic, 
what  good  gifts  can  I  claim  from  you  ?  Dark-eyed,  beau- 
teous South,  what  tribute  bearest  thou  in  thy  fair  palp^' 
C3uld  of  energy,  Central  group,  advance  and  show  ;r<ttV4 


OUR  country's  wealth.  8i 

«)ntributious.  And  thou,  fair  West,  daughter  of  the  set- 
ting sun,  let  me  behold  the  glitter  of  thy  annual  oflering. 
Each,  iE.  turn  come  hither  and  reward  my  tender  love  for 
sJl  by  duteous  display  of  tribute  due.  [  With  a  inajestid 
vave  of  her  hand.']     Advance,  New  England. 

Hetv  England  {hearing  a  piece  of  granite  in  her  hands, 
which  she  places  at  the  feet  of  Columbia). — At  thy  command, 

0  Queen !  I  draw  near.  Here  is  offering  rare,  digged  from 
the  quarries  of  the  "  Old  Granite  State."  In  massy  piles, 
awaiting  thy  command,  lies  tlie  timber,  stout  and  strong, 
cut  from  the  majestic  forests  of  the  North,  while  from  the 
busy  workshops  and  noisy  factories,  dotting  all  the  fair  land 
in  numbers  great,  are  sent  forth  a  thousaud  proofs  of  our 
toil  and  enterprise.     In  thy  bauds,  Oh !  gracious  sovereign, 

1  lay  New  England's  tribute,  with  the  hope  that  it  meets 
with  thy  queenly  approval. 

Columbia. — Nobly  hast  tbou  done.  New  England !  Now 
let  the  Middle  Atlantic  recite  her  worth  and  work. 

Middle  Atlantic  {bringing  iron-ore,  or  bits  of  coal,  in  a 
rnnall,  shallow  basket). — Our  offering,  most  gracious  Colum- 
bia, beloved  Queen,  we  trust  is  not  unworthy  of  thy  accept- 
ance. We  have  delved  into  the  deep  places  of  the  earth, 
aud  thence  have  brought  the  metal  of  strength  for  thy  im- 
plements of  tillage  or  of  warfare,  the  dusky  diamondi 
whose  burning  hearts  will  give  thee  warmth,  and  the  won. 
derful  oil  from  its  storehouses  under  the  rocks.  We  bring 
thee  the  webs  from  a  thousand  looms  and  the  cunning 
devices  from  a  thousand  workshops.  We  offer  thee 
ships  and  sailors  to  transport  the  work  of  our  hands  to  the 
four  quarters  of  the  globe  and  receive  thence  spices 
and  myrrh  and  all  fair  things.  O,  Queen,  canst  thou  ask 
more  ? 

Columbicu. — Middle  Atlantic,  right  weU  have  you  en' 


84  OUR   COUNTRY^S  WEALTH. 

ployed  your  trust.     Accept  our  queenly  comniendation  and 
give  place  to  your  sister,  the  South. 

South  (^presenting  a  small  fruit-basket  lined  with  raw  cotton 
and  filled  with  oranges^. — Sovereign  beloved,  the  South 
salutes  thee.  In  thousands  of  our  cotton  fields  the  burst- 
ing pods  offer  pure  white  hearts  for  thy  takiug.  The 
juicy  canes  of  lowland  acres  bring  their  sweetness  for 
thy  delectation.  Rice  marshes  and  orange  groves,  fruits 
and  flowers,  bring  thee  greeting.  Have  I  done  well,  my 
liege  ? 

Columbia. — Beloved,  I  kiss  thy  hand  and  murmur 
benediction.     States  of  the  Centre,  where  are  you? 

Central  States  (carrying  stalks  of  grain  which  she  presents 
to  Columbia). — From  prairies  wide  and  river  valleys  fair 
receive  the  corn  and  wine  which  are  thy  due.  Our  barna 
are  bursting  with  their  plenty,  our  waving  plains  are  evei 
murmuring — "  Come  and  take."  We  also  bring  to  thee 
rich  stores  of  metals  pure.  Copper  and  lead  and  iron  are 
thine,  if  thou  but  speak  the  word.  We  bring  thee  cattle 
from  a  thousand  hills.    Can  we  do  more? 

Columbia. — Richly  art  thou  endowed,  my  daughter,  and 
bounteously  givest  thou.  Wilt  thou  now  give  place  to  her 
who  Cometh  hither  from  the  far  Western  shore  ?  I  would 
hear  from  her. 

West  (tvith  offering  of  quartz,  or  rock  to  imitate  it). — From 
world-famed  vale  of  giant  trees,  from  mountain  gullies  rich 
with  metals  rare,  I  reach  my  hands  to  thee,  O,  Queen 
Columbia.  My  offering  here  I  bring— silver  pale  and 
yellow  gold,  and  fruits  of  mammoth  growth.  The  cluster- 
ino-  richness  of  the  vine,  we  bring  thee  also.  Is  not  our  gift 
most  fair? 

Columbia. — I  grant  thee  grace  and  approbation  real. 
Though  last,  not  least  art  thou.    All  have  done  nobly,  each 


THE    BEST   POLICY.  81 

in  her  place,  and  here  I  call  you  round  me.  Let  me  feel 
what  'tis  to  be  so  well  upheld.  New  England  and  IMiddle 
at  my  right,  fair  South  and  Central  on  my  left,  and  thou, 
West,  my  youngest,  here  at  my  footstool  stand.  \_They place 
tliemselves  according  to  Columbuis  directions,  thus  forming  a 
tableau  and  singing  Columbia,  the  Gem  of  the  Ocean,  audience 
joining  in  the  chorus.  If  preferred,  tJie  mvMC  may  be  omitUid, 
cloiing  simply  ivith  the  tableau. 

E.  Celia  Rook 


THE  BEST  POLICY. 

CHARACTERS. 

Mr.  Rattenbury,  whose  bark  is  worse  than  his  bitfi. 
Bob  Bolter,  who  only  wants  to  borrow. 
Jack  Judson,  a  young  man  of  principle. 
Little  Bemny  Warren,  who  lost  his  way. 

Scene. — A  mdely  furnished  room.  Table  in  centre.  Small 
stove  at  right,  on  which  sits  a  tea-kettle.  Hough  bed  made 
of  blankets  at  left.  A  couple  of  chairs  without  backs,  on  one 
of  tvhich  is  tin  wash-basin,  makes  up  the  rest  of  the  furniture. 
Table  is  set  with  tin  plates  and  cracked  and  broken  crockery. 
Lighted  candle  in  centre.  As  curtain  rises  Bob  Bolter  is 
discovered  placing  a  supj)er  on  the  table  from  some  brotvn 
paper  parcels. 

Bob  (cheerily). — There  we  are!  Some  nice  cold  ham, 
some  rolls,  some  mince  pie,  and  [turning  to  stovel  if  that 
fire  ever  comes  up  we'll  have  some  coffee.  O  my,  though, 
didn't  I  strike  luck  to-day?  Not  any  too  soon  either,  for 
Jack's  without  a  cent  in  his  pocket  and  we  hadn't  a  crumb 
ia  the  house.     Thank  Heaven  I  didn't  have  to  beg !    I  was 


86  THE   BEST  POLICY. 

afraid  it  would  come  to  that — and  it  would,  probably,  if  \ 
hadu't  had  the  good  fortune  to  get  a  job  slioveliug  suow  oS 
the  City  Hall  sidewalk.  It  was  hard  work,  to  be  sure,  and 
cold  work,  too ;  but  it  gave  me  a  dollar  and  a  half  which 
bought  me  a  suow-shovel  with  which  I  can  earn  more  to- 
morrow, and  it  provided  us  with  a  jolly  good  supper  for 
to-night,  too.  After  all,  we're  not  so  bad  off!  [Looking 
about  room.^  It's  cozy  here  if  it's  not  luxurious.  We're 
not  Vanderbilts  nor  Jay  Goulds  and  we  haven't  exactly  a 
palace,  but  the  windows  are  tight  enough  to  keep  the  cold 
out,  and  so  loug  as  we  pay  our  rent —  '[Starting  suddenly.'] 
Pay  our  rent !  That's  what  I  never  thought  of.  It's  a 
month  overdue  now,  and  unless  we  raise  ten  dollars  by  the 
time  Old  Rattlebones  comes  around  again,  out  we  go. 
Well,  my  dollar  and  a  half  wouldn't  have  done  much  in 
chat  way,  and  if  he  will  wait  until  to-morrow.  Jack's  wages 
for  the  fortnight  will  be  paid  to  him,  and  we  can  pay  the 
rent  and  have  two  dollars  to  spare.  It's  time  Jack  was 
here  now.  What  can  be  keeping  the  boy,  I  wonder? 
Won't  he  be  jolly  glad  when  he  sees  the  fire  and  the  supper 
and  catches  a  whiff  of  that  hot  coffee !  [Sounds  are  heard 
outside.']  Ah  !  Here  he  comes  now.  [Kiiock  is  heard  at 
door,  L.]  What  does  he  mean  by  knocking  ?  Come  in  I 
(Enter  Mr.  Rattenbury.') 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — Ah  !    Here  you  are,  are  you  I     Quite 
warm  and  snug  and  comfortable,  ain't  you  ? 

Bob. — Trying  to  be,  Mr.  Rattenbury. 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — Struck  a  fortune,  I  suppose,  eh? 

Bob. — Not  exactly ;  no,  sir. 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — Well,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that 

Bob. — So  am  I,  sir. 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — I  suppose  you're  glad  to  see  me,  and 
tii*.t  you  have  my  money  waiting  for  me,  eh  ? 


THE   BEST   POLICY.  87 

Bob. — Not  exactly,  Mr.  Rattenbury;  we  haven't  the 
BQOuey  in  hand  just  now  to  pay  your  rent,  but  if  you'll  wait — 

3fr.  Rattenbury  {testily). — Waitl  Wait!  It's  always 
wait.  I'm  tired  of  waiting  and  I  won't  wait  any  longer, 
No  sir,  not  a  day  longer ;  not  another  day,  sir.  I  must 
have  the  ten  dollars  due  to-night — this  very  night — or  you'll 
sleep  in  a  coal-biu  or  a  dry-goods  box. 

Bob. — To-morrow,  Mr.  Rattenbury,  we'll  be  able  to  pay 
you.  My  friend  Judson  will  have  the  money  then  and  you 
shall  have  every  dollar  due  you. 

Mr.  Eattenbury. — Ha  !  ha  !  That's  an  old  dodge,  Bolter, 
a  very  old  dodge !  We  have  heard  it  before,  many  times 
before.  If  you  haven't  it  now,  you  won't  have  it  then. 
You  can't  blind  me,  young  man  !    Out  you  go. 

Bob. — Can't  you  take  my  word,  sir? 

3Ir.  Rattenbury. — Pie-crust  promises  yours  are — easily 
broken,  very  easily  broken.  No  sir,  I  can't  take  any  word, 
money  is  what  I  want — money !  money !  money ! 

Bob  (aside).— What  shall  I  do  with  Old  Rattlebones?  I 
must  stave  him  off  for  a  while,  anyhow.  [Aloud.']  Per- 
haps Judson  will  bring  something  home  with  him  when  he 
comes.     He  will  be  here  soon  ;  will  you  wait  ? 

i/r.  Rattenbury. — No  sir,  I  won't  wait ;  I  hate  to  wait. 
If  I  were  a  joker  I'd  tell  you  I'm  not  a  waiter,  but  I  don't 
feel  like  joking  and  so  I  won't  tell  you.  I'll  go  away  and 
come  back  again.  I  have  several  other  tenants  in  the 
neighborhood.  I  will  see  them  and  come  back.  If  the 
money  is  not  ready  then,  I  shall  have  to  throw  this  old 
rubbish  of  yours  into  the  street  and  lock  your  door.  Do 
jou  understand  me? 

Bob. — O  yes,  sir,  I  understand. 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — Have  the  money  ready  1  Have  thfl 
laoney  ready  1     \_Exit  Mr.  Rattenbury,  L.] 

n 


88  THE    BEST   POLICT. 

Boh  (sitting  down  on  chair). — Old  Rattlebones  seems  de- 
termined, sure  enough.  I  wouder  if  he  really  would  throw 
us  out  a  cold  uight  like  this.  It  strikes  me  his  bark  ii 
worse  than  his  bite,  and  that  he's  onlj  trying  to  frighteu 
us.  There  isn't  the  least  chance  in  the  world  of  Jack  hav' 
ing  any  money  before  to-morrow,  and  there  isn't  a  friend 
from  whom  we  could  borrow  a  penny,  that's  a  certainty. 
After  all,  it  looks  rather  shaky  and  no  mistake.  IBlses, 
goes  to  stove,  and  takes  tea-kettle  off.']  How's  that  for  a 
coffee-pot  ?  Not  very  elegant,  but  it  answers  the  purpose,  and 
that's  all  that  a  silver  urn  would  do.  If  Jack  don't  hurry 
the  coffee  will  be  cold,  and  we  won't  have  time  to  eat  be- 
fore we're — what  is  it  they  call  it  ? — ejected !  [^Footsteps 
heard  outside.']  That's  Jack,  sure  enough  !  Hark  !  I'm 
blest  if  there  isn't  some  one  with  him,  too ! 

(Enter  Jack,  supporting  little  Ben,  L.) 

Jae^'.— Heigh,  ho  !  What's  this  ?  Well,  I  didn't  expect 
such  a  cheery  reception  for  my  little  guest.  It's  ten  hun- 
dred times  better  than  I  dared  to  hope. 

Boh. — Hello,  Jack,  old  man !  Have  you  brought  home 
company  with  you?     Who  is  the  little  shaver? 

Jack  (leading  Little  Ben  over  to  stove). — A  poor  little 
chap  I  found  asleep  and  half  frozen,  in  the  snow,  lying 
down  near  the  corner  of  the  street.  We  must  get  him 
warmed  up.  Bob.  Thank  Heaven !  you  have  a  fire.  I  was 
not  expecting  this.     You  found  work,  did  you  ? 

Boh. — Yes,  and  not  any  too  soon,  either.  It  wasn't 
much,  to  be  sure,  but  it  was  enough  to  give  us  fire  and  a 
supper,  and  small  favors  must  be  thankfully  received,  eh  ? 

Ja/ik  (sitting  down  by  stove  and  rubhing  lAttle  Ben^t 
hands). — Do  you  feel  warmer,  my  little  man?  ^Little  Ben 
thakes  his  head  affirmatively.]     Is  that  coffee  I  smell,  Bob  ? 

£ob. — I  am  happy  to  say  it  is. 


THE   BEST   POLICY.  85 

Jack. — Pour  out  a  cup  for  the  youug  gentleman,  will 
you? 

Bob. — Why,  certainly!  We  haven't  any  sugar  oi 
cream.  I  hope  he  will  excuse  that.  \_Poiurlng  out  cup  oj 
coffee  from  tea-kettle.'] 

Jack. — It  will  warm  him  up.  IGives  coffee  to  Little  jSen, 
who  drinks  it.}     That's  nice  and  hot,  isn't  it? 

Ben. — Yes,  sir.     You  are  very  kind  to  me. 

Jack. — Poor  little  chap,  if  I  hadn't  found  you,  you 
might  have  frozen  to  death. 

Bob. — What  were  you  sleeping  in  the  snow  for?  Don't 
you  know  that's  a  poor  sort  of  a  bed  ? 

Ben. — O  sir !  I  was  so  tired.  I  had  walked  so  far,  and  1 
was  so  cold,  and  at  last  I  grew  very  sleepy.  I  could  not  keep 
my  eyes  open,  and  then  I  don't  remember  any  more  until 
this  gentleman  'wakened  me. 

Jack. — And  where  did  you  come  from  ? 

Ben. — From  graudpa's  office,  sir. 

Bob. — And  where  were  you  going  ? 

Ben. — He  sent  me  Avith  twenty  dollars  to  pay  a  bill, 
but  I  lost  my  way,  and  I  was  trying  to  find  it  again. 

Jack. — And  you  couldn't,  could  you? 

Brn. — No  sir.  I  asked  several  people,  but  I  guess  they 
thought  I  was  begging,  for  they  only  hurried  on  and 
wouldn't  stop  to  listen  to  me. 

Bob. — Are  you  hungry  ? 

Ben. — Yes  sir. 

Jack. — Give  him  something  to  eat,  Bob. 

Bob  (getting  some  bread  and  ham  from  table'). — To  be  sur< 
I  will.     Here's  a  sandwich  for  him.     What's  his  name  ? 

Ben. — Benny  Warren,  sir. 

Jack  (taking  sandwich  and  handing  it  to  him). — Here, 
Benny,  eat  this,  and  you'll  feel  better. 


iJO  THE   BEST   POLICY. 

Be7i  (taking  sandwich  and  eating'). — Thank  you,  sar. 

Jack. — And  when  you  have  had  all  you  want  to  eat,  you 
shall  lie  down  over  there  and  have  a  nice  nap.  And  then 
I  will  take  you  home,  for  I  dare  say  your  mamma  is  very 
much  worried  about  you  now. 

Ben  (with  his  mouth  full). — Thank  you,  sir.  I  should 
never  be  able  to  find  my  way  by  myself. 

Bob. — Quite  a  little  gentleman,  isn't  he? 

Jack. — That  he  is.  [^Getting  up  and  draiving  chair  to 
table.']  I'm  rather  hungry  myself.  Bob  ;  suppose  we  pitch 
in.  There  you  go,  Benny.  Trot  over  there  and  lie  down 
and  rest  yourself. 

(Ben  lies  down  on  blankets,  L.,  and  is  soon  asleep.  Bob 
and  Jack  sit  at  table,  Bob  left  and  Jack  right.  While  eating 
they  converse.) 

Bob. — I  suppose  you  brought  the  rent  home  with  you  I 

Jack. — The  rent  ?  Well,  I  guess  not.  There's  no  draw- 
ing money  in  advance  down  at  our  shop.  I  managed  to 
borrow  fifty  cents  from  the  foreman  with  which  I  meant  to 
buy  some  supper  if  you  hadn't  bought  it  already,  and  I 
considered  myself  lucky  to  get  that. 

Bob. — You  see.  Old  Rattlebones  has  been  here,  and  he 
Bays  he  won't  wait  another  day  for  his  money. 

Jack. — Did  you  tell  him  I  had  work  and  would  pay  him 
as  soon  as  I  get  my  wages  ? 

Bob. — O  yes,  I  told  him  everything,  but  he's  deter- 
mined to  bounce  us. 

Jack. — I  don't  believe  he's  got  the  heart. 

Bob. — Hasn't  he,  though  ?  My  dear  Jack,  if  we  don't 
raise  the  money  in  half  an  hour,  there's  no  hope  for  us. 
We'll  either  have  to  throw  Old  Rattlebones  out  the  window 
er  vamose  the  ranche,  as  they  say  out  West 


THE   BEST   POLICY. 

Jaclc. — Raise  the  money?  Where  on  earth  are  we  to 
raise  it? 

Boh. — I  was  just  thinking  [^poltiting  significantly  to  Ben, 
who  lies  sleep ingi  that  we  might  borrow  a  ten  from  hii 
twenty.  He'll  sleep  quiet  enough  until  morning,  when  you 
can  take  him  home,  explain  all  about  the  matter,  and  pay 
back  the  ten  when  you  get  your  wages  to-morrow  night. 
Or  his  father  might  give  you  that  as  a  reward — see? 

Jack. — 0  no,  Bob,  not  that.  It  would  be  stealing,  my 
boy.  We  have  no  right  to  touch  a  penny  of  the  little 
chap's  money.  I'll  take  him  home  to-night,  and  maybe 
they'll  give  me  the  reward  then. 

Bob. — But  that  will  be  too  late.  Old  Rattlebones  will 
have  been  here.  [^Stejjs  heard  outside.l  Old  Rattlebones 
is  here  now,  and  if  I'm  not  mistaken  we've  either  got  to 
mob  him  or  be  mobbed. 

Jack. — We  Avou't  take  little  Ben's  money,  that's  certain. 
We  must  be  honest,  Bob,  under  all  circumstances. 
{Enter  Mr.  Rattenbury.) 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — So  }ou're  in,  are  you,  Judson? 

Jack. — You  see  me,  sir, 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — And  you  have  the  money? 

Bob. — No  sir,  we  haven't.  As  I  told  you,  we  can't  pay 
jott  before  to-morrow. 

3£r.  Rattenbury. — Which  means  next  week,  next  month, 
next  year.     Well,  you  know  the  consequences.     Get  out ! 

Jack. — You're  not  going  to  turn  us  out  to-night,  Mr. 
Rattenbury? 

Mr.  Rattenhury. — Never  put  off  until  to-morrow  what 
can  be  done  to-day,  that's  my  motto.  Come  now,  move 
your  furniture.  {^Tarns  to  bed.  Little  Ben  is  rolled  up  in 
covers  and  cannot  be  seen.']  Here,  I'll  carry  your  bed  out 
for  you.     \_Stoops  down  and  attempts  to  drag  it  oiU,  and  in 


92  THE   BEST  POLICY. 

doing  so  discovers  Ben.^  What's  this?  You've  got  a 
boarder,  have  you?  Wliy  don't  you  get  the  rent  out  of 
him?     Is  he  peuuiless,  too? 

Bob. — No  sir,  he's  not  penniless.  He  has  twenty  dol- 
lars in  his  pocket  now,  but — 

Mr.  Battenbury. — Why  don't  you  borrow  it  of  him ? 

Jack. — Because,  sir,  it  don't  belong  to  him ;  he  was — 

{Little  Ben,  ivho  has  been  awakened  by  the  talking  and  the 
pulling  at  his  bed,  jumps  uji  and  runs  to  Mr.  Battejibury, 
who  has  his  back  to  him.) 

Ben  (interrupting). — 0  grandpa !  grandpa !  I'm  so  glad 
to  find  you. 

Mr.  Battenbury  (turning  in  surprise). — Why  Benny,  my 
child,  where  did  you  come  from?  What  are  you  doing 
here? 

Ben. — I  lost  my  way,  and  this  young  man  took  me  in 
and  was  so  kind  and  good  to  me, 

Ja/ik. — I  found  him  half  frozen  in  the  snow,  sir. 

Mr.  Battenbury. — And  did  you  pay  the  bill  ? 

Ben. — No  sir,  I  couldn't  find  the  office.     I  got  lost. 

Mr.  Battenbury. — And  you  told  these  young  men  all 
about  it  and  that  you  were  my  grandson  ? 

Befi. — O  no,  sir,  I  didn't  say  whose  grandson  I  was. 
I  told  them  where  I  lived,  and  that  one  \_poi71ting  to  Jack'\ 
was  going  to  take  me  home  this  evep"ig. 

Mr.  Battenbury. — Well,  it's  fortuiutte  they  found  you. 
Poor  child,  I  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  send 
you  on  an  errand  this  cold  weather,  but  I  hadn't  an  id  ^a 
but  that  you  could  find  the  place. 

Bob. — And  he's  your  grandson,  is  he,  sir  ? 

Mr.  Battenbury. — He  is,  y-es.  I  must  thank  you  for  be- 
ing  so  good  to  him. 

Jack. — O  don't  mention  it,  sir. 


THE   BEST   POLICY.  9i 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — And  you  wouklu't  borrow  ten  dollars 
of  the  money  you  knew  he  hail,  eveu  to  save  yourselves 
from  being  thrown  out  into  the  street? 

Boh. — I  wanted  to  borrow  it,  but  Jack  persuaded  me  it 
wouldn't  be  honest. 

Mr.  Rattenbury. — And  Jack  was  right.  He  deserves 
3redit ;  you  both  deserve  credit.  And  I  mean  to  give  it  to 
you  in  more  senses  than  one.  Never  mind  about  the  rent 
uow.  Pay  me  when  you  get  it.  I  know  I  can  trust  you.  I 
isk  your  pardon  for  mistrusting  you  before.  Come  to  my 
office  in  the  morning,  both  of  you.  I  think  I  can  put  you 
in  a  way  to  earn  a  good  living  where  your  honesty  will  be 
appreciated. 

Jack.  I  _xhauk  you,  sir. 
Bob.  ) 

Mr.   Rattenbury. — And   now,    Benny   boy,  come   along 
home  with  grandpa  ;  your  friends  shall  be  rewarded. 
Ben. — Good-bye ! 

'^^  '  \  — Good-bye,  Benny. 
Bob.  ) 

Mr.  Rattenbury  (stoj^ping  on  threshold). — Young  men, 
you  are  on  the  right  track.  While  you  are  honest,  you  are 
sure  to  succeed. 

(Exit  Mr.  Rattenbury,  L.,  leading  Ben.') 

Bob. — He's  not  such  a  bad  sort,  is  he  ? 

Jack. — No,  he's  not !     Old  Rattlebones  is  a  brick. 

Bob. — And  honesty  is — 

Ja/^. — The  best  policy. 

[Curtain.] 

Charles  Stokes  Wayne. 


94  UNCLE  Morton's  gift. 


UNCLE  MORTON'S  GIFT. 

CHARACTERS. 

Arthur  Jackson,  a  boy  of  twelve. 
JiMMiE  White,  a  poor  boy. 
Alice  Jackson,  a  young  lady. 
Lucie  Jackson,  a  girl  of  fourteen. 
BiLviE  Meredith,  a  friend  of  Alice's. 
Annie  Carter,  a  sewing  girl. 
Susie  Carter,  a  little  invalid  girl. 
Bridget  Dolin,  an  Irish  fruit  seller. 

COSTUMES. 

Alice,  Silvie,  Lucie,  and  Arthur  well  and  tastefully  dressed  in  the  fashion 
of  the  day.  Annie  Carter  and  Susie  in  faded  calico  dresses  and  much- 
worn  shoes.  Mrs.  Dolin,  short  calico  dress,  green  gingham  apron,  large, 
rough  shoes,  and  a  very  small  plaid  shawl  pinned  over  her  head. 

Scene  I. 

Nicely  furnished  sitting-room.     Alice  sitting  at  R.  reading. 

Lucis  and  Arthur  at  a  table  near  C,  playing  checkers. 

Arthur. — Tliere's  one  thing  I  can't  understand. 

Alice. — Only  one,  I  suppose? 

Arthur. — Of  course !     And  that  is — 

Lucie  (slyly). — How  tlie  molasses  candy  disappeared 
from  the  shelf  in  the  closet  so  mysteriously  ? 

Arthur. — INlaybe  I  know  more  about  that  than  you  think, 
Miss  Lucie.    But  you're  wrong.    Guess  again. 

Jjucie. — Is  it  why  Uncle  Morton  doesn't  send  us  our 
New  Year's  money  ? 

Arthur. — I  declare,  Lu.,  you've  hit  it!  Say  now,  Alice, 
don't  you  think  it's  a  little  queer?  Here  it  is  the  fifth,  and 
he  has  always  sent  it  in  time  for  New  Year's  Day  before, 
you  Know. 

Lucie. — Perhaps  he  is  sick. 

Alice. — A  hundred  things  might  happen  to  delay  thi 


UNCLE  "Morton's  gift.  98 

mail   between  here  and  Sau  Francisco.     [J.  loud  ring  it 
heard.] 

Arthur. — There's  the  postman  now.  I'll  go  and  see  if  he 
has  our  letters.  IGoes  out,  returning  in  a  moment  with 
letters  in  his  hand.']  Hurrah!  here  they  are  at  last. 
IReads  ]  Miss  Alice  Jackson,  Miss  Lucie  Jackson,  Master 
Arthur  Morton  Jackson.  What'li  you  give  for  them, 
girls? 

Alice  {holding  out  her  hand). — Now  don't  tease,  Arthur. 
Give  me  mine,  please. 

Arthur  {handing  one  to  Alice  and  another  to  Lucie). — 
There,  calm  yourselves,  ladies.  You  know  exactly  w^hat's 
in  them.  How  unfortunate  it  is  to  be  the  youngest  of  the 
family.  [  Opening  his  letter  and  unjolding  a  check.]  Here 
I  have  only  twelve  dollars,  while  Alice  has — let  me  see 
[peeps  over  her  shoulder'] — twenty!  My  gracious,  Alice, 
but  you're  getting  old. 

Lucie. — I  just  wish  I  was  twenty  instead  of  fourteen! 
Fourteen  dollars  will  buy  lots  of  things  that  I  want,  but 
twenty — only  think  of  having  twenty  dollars  all  at  once ! 
{Enter  Silvie  Meredith^ 

Silvie. — Ann  told  me  you  were  all  up  here,  so  I  took  the 
liberty  of  coming  right  up. 

Alice  {rising  and  kissing  her). — I  am  so  glad  to  see  you, 
Silvie.     It  is  such  a  long  time  since  you  were  here  last. 

Silvie. — I  have  been  away  three  weeks. 

Arthur  and  Lucie. — I  didn't  see  you  at  first.  How  d« 
jrou  do? 

Lucie. — I'm  well,  thank  you. 

Arthur. — So  am  I,  considering  the  circumstances. 

Silvie. — What  circumstances? 

Arthur. — Why,  Christmas  and  New  Year's,  you  know, 
and  having  two  young  ladies  ordering  me  about  from  moriH 


96  UNCLE   MORTON'S  GIFT. 

ing  till  night.  It's  "Arthur,  won't  you  please  do  this  T 
"Arthur,  do  stop  that !"  "Arthur  dear,  won't  you  please 
run  down  towu  for  me  ?" 

Alice  (laughing). — Oh,  yes,  you  are  dreadfully  abused. 

Imcie. — What  an  absurd  boy  you  are!  It  isn't  half  so 
bad  as  he  makes  it  out,  Miss  Silvie. 

Alice. — Come  over  here  and  sit  down,  Ivie.  I  want  to 
ask  you  something.  You  can  go  on  with  your  game,  chil- 
dren.   \_Alice  and  Silvie  sit  dow7i.^ 

Lucie  {sarcastically). — Children  ! 

{Lucie  and  Arthur  resume  their  seats  at  the  table,  but  listen 
to  what  Silvie  and  Alice  are  saying.) 

Alice  {to  Silvie). — You  know  our  Uncle  Morton  always 
sends  us  each  a  present  of  money  at  New  Year's  to  corres- 
pond with  our  ages. 

Silvie. — That  is  very  kind  and  generous  of  him,  I  think. 

Arthur. — Oh,  he  don't  hurt  himself.  He's  as  rich  as 
Croesus. 

Alice. — Mine  is  twenty  dollars  this  year,  and  I'm  won- 
dering just  what  I  had  better  do  with  it.  Of  course,  I 
want  to  get  the  greatest  amount  of  satisfaction  out  of  it 
that  I  can.  There's  a  lovely  engraving  of  Guide's 
"  Mater  Dolorosa  "  at  Norman's.  I  can't  decide  whether 
to  get  that  or  sin  elegantly  bound  edition  of  Shakespeare 
I  saw  at  Randall's. 

Lucie. — Well,  I  know  what  I  want  without  any  trouble. 
I  have  set  my  heart  on  a  monkey-skin  collar  and  muffl 
They  have  been  reduced  since  the  holidays,  and  I  can  get 
a  lovely  set  at  Arnold's  for  fifteen  dollars. 

Arthur. — Oh,  what  queer  things  you  girls  are!  I'm  the 
only  one  who  has  a  sensible  plan.  I'm  going  to  buy  a 
printing  press.  Will  you  give  me  an  order  for  some  cardSi 
Miss  Silvie? 


TJNCLE   M(?RTON*S   GIFT.  &t 

Silvie. — Perhaps  so. 

Alice. — Now,  which  would  you  rather  have  if  jou  wer9 
I,  Silvia  ? — Shakespeare,  or  the  "  Mater  Dolorosa  "  ? 

Silvie. — I  fear  I  should  find  it  hard  to  decide  between 
the  two,  they  are  both  so  tempting.  But,  as  there  is  no 
pressing  need  of  your  deciding  at  once,  I  wish  you  would 
come  and  take  a  walk  with  me.  There's  a  picture  I  want 
you  to  see  that  you  may  possibly  feel  more  like  spending 
your  money  for  than  the  "  Mater  Dolorosa  "  even. 

Alwe. — What  can  it  be  ?  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  it. 
8hall  we  go  now? 

Silvie. — Yes,  if  you  please.  The  afternoons  are  so  short, 
you  know.  [Tunis  to  Lucie.}  Lucie,  may  I  go  with  you 
to-morrow  morning  to  look  at  the  furs  you  are  going  to 
buy? 

Lucie. — Yes,  indeed,  I  should  be  ever  so  glad  to  havo 
you. 

Arthur. — Look  here,  this  isn't  fair.  Don't  you  want 
me  to  escort  you  somewhere  ? 

Silvie. — I  certainly  do,  Arthur.  If  you  will  come  round 
to  ray  house  at  three  o'clock  to-morrow  I  will  very  gladly 
fcvail  myself  of  your  kind  offer. 

Arthur. — All  right,  I'll  be  there. 

Scene  IL 

4   plainly   furnished  room.     Annie  sitting  at  R.  sewing. 

Susie  lying  on  lounge,  L.    Silvie  and  Alice  in  out-doot 

■urraps  sitting  near  C. 

Silvie. — Are  you  working  as  hard  as  usual,  Annie? 

An7iie. — Yes,  miss.  I  get  up  at  six  in  the  morning  and 
Tm  seldom  in  bed  again  before  midnight. 

Alice. — But  you  don't  sew  steadily  all  that  time,  surely  ? 

Annie.— Yea,  I  do,  miss.     It's  the  only  way  I  can  mak« 


98  UNCLE  MORTON'S  GIFT. 

anything,  and  even  then  I  only  make  enough  to  keep  ui 
barely  comfortable.  Susie  is  so  delicate  and  her  appetita 
is  so  poor  that  I  have  to  buy  some  nice  little  things  to 
tempt  her  to  eat  at  all  sometimes.  If  she  were  strong  and 
well  like  other  children  it  would  be  different.  I  have  to  be 
BO  careful  of  her.  If  I  should  lose  her  I  shouldn't  want 
to  live  any  longer. 

Silvie. — But  if  you  work  in  this  way  you  will  certainly 
kill  yourself,  and  then  what  would  become  of  little  Susie? 
Can't  you  get  anything  to  do  but  those  coarse  shirts? 

Annie. — I  have  tried,  but  so  far  I  have  failed.  I  don'f 
like  to  take  time  to  go  and  look  for  work,  for  every  houi 
means  a  few  cents  at  least,  and  I'm  sure  of  getting  my  pay 
for  these,  if  it  is  small.  If  I  could  only  lay  by  a  little,  1 
ghould  have  some  hope,  but  it  is  so  discouraging  to  spend 
every  cent  as  fast  as  you  get  it.  I  don't  mean  to  complain, 
but  when  I  think  how  it  used  to  be  when  mother  and 
^ther  were  alive  I  can  scarcely  bear  it.  We  had  such 
a  comfortable,  pleasant  little  home,  and  I  knew  almost 
Qothing  of  what  care  was.     But  now — [weeps.'] 

Silvie  {rising  and  laying  her  hand  on  Annies shoidder').-^ 
Ob,  don't  cry,  Annie.  There  are  brighter  days  in  store  for 
jrou,  I  am  sure.  Indeed,  I  can  assure  you  there  is  a  rift 
in  the  clouds  already.  I  will  give  you  some  sewing  to  do 
For  me,  and  I  am  sure  I  can  interest  others  for  you. 

Alice. — I  have  some  work  at  home  that  I  have  been  put* 
iing  off  for  want  of  leisure.  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  ta 
bave  you  do  it  for  me  if  you  will. 

Annie. — Indeed  I  will,  and  thank  you  very,  very  much. 

Alice  (to  Susie). — What  do  you  do  to  amuse  yourself  all 
day  long  ? 

iSusie  (shyly). — I  sit  at  the  windoAV  and  look  out  some* 
tunes.      Sometimes  I  play  with  my  doll.    IShows  a  stick 


UNCLE   MORTON'S   GIFT.  99 

with  an  apron  tied  around  it]  Sometimes  sister  and  I  lell 
each  other  stories,  but  most  times  I  make  pictures. 

Alice. — Make  pictures  ?     How  ? 

Sitsie, — Sister  bought  me  a  pencil  and  some  nice,  smooth 
brown  paper,  and  I  make  trees  and  houses  and  little  girls 
and  boys  aud  dogs  aud  cats  and  horses  and  everythiug  I 
can  think  of. 

Alice. — Suppose  you  could  have  just  whatever  you 
wanted,  what  would  you  like? 

Sudc  (ta  Annie). — Shall  I  tell  her,  sister? 

Annie. — Of  course,  dear,  since  the  lady  is  so  kind  as  to 
ask  you. 

Susie. — If  I  could  have  a  box  of  paints,  so  I  could  paint 
my  pictures,  I  sliould  be  just  as  happy  as  I  could  be. 

Alice. — Then  you  may  begiu  to  be  happy  now,  for  you 
shall  have  them.  Aud  suppose  you  could  have  a  doll  with 
red  cheeks  and  blue  eyes  and  real  yellow  curls,  how  would 
you  like  that? 

Susie. — Oh,  dear  me.    I'm  afraid  I'd  cry,  I'd  be  so  happy. 

Alice. — Well,  you  may  look  for  one  before  night.  And 
now,  Silvie,  don't  you  think  we  are  making  our  call  very 
loug? 

Silvie. — Yes,  we  must  go.  Now,  Annie,  after  you  hav« 
finished  that  set  of  shirts,  don't  get  any  more.  You  shall 
have  better  work  and  better  pay  than  you  have  had. 
Good-bye. 

Annie.- — Good-bye,  ]\Iiss  Meredith.  I  don't  know  how 
to  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  Susie  and  me. 


jyy  UNCLE  MORTON  S  GIFT. 

Scene  III. 

The  street.     A  corner  fruit-stand,  with  oranges,  apples,  Hg^ 
and  nuts  arranged  upon  it.    Bridget  Dolin  sitting  beside  il 
{Enter  Silvie  and  Lmcie.) 

Silvie.—W\\\  you  object  to  stopping  a  moment,  Lucie  ? 
r  want  to  speak  to  this  woman. 

Lucie.— Do  you  know  her,  Miss  Siivie? 

Silvie.— I  buy  fruit  of  her  quite  often.  You  will  find 
her  very  interesting,  I  think.     Good-morning,  Mrs.  Dolin. 

Mrs.  Z>.— Sure,  an'  is  it  yerself,  miss  ?  The  top  of  the 
mornin'  till  yez ! 

/Stfoie.— Thank  you.     Please  give  me  a  dozen  oranges. 

Mrs.  D. — Wid  all  me  heart,  miss,  an'  blessin's  on  ye  for 
the  shwate  young  leddy  that  ye  are !  It's  the  first  sale  I've 
had  the  morn,  an'  I  was  just  gettiu'  a  bit  down-hearted 
like. 

SiMe. — I  thought  you  didn't  get  down-hearted,  Mrs. 
Dolin? 

Mrs.  D. — No  more  I  don't,  miss,  unless  I  jist  can't  help 
it.     [  Wipes  her  eyes  on  her  ajjron.'] 

Silvie. — -Has  anything  gone  wrong  at  home? 

3frs.  D. — Wrong,  is  it  ?  Sure,  an'  it  seems  as  if  every* 
thing  in  the  wurruld  war  turruned  upside  down  wid  me ! 
Arrah,  but  it's  an  angel  ye  are,  jist  to  be  inquirin'  into  the 
throubles  o'  the  likes  o'  me!  But  since  ye're  axin,  I'll 
tell  yez  the  thruth.  There  isn't  a  livin'  man  as  could  be 
betther  nor  me  own  Pathrick  whin  the  dhrink  isn't  intil 
him.  It's  yerself  knows  I've  said  that  same  thing  to  ye2 
many's  the  time.  But  onct  he  gets  a  dhrop  o'  the  craythur, 
he's  jist  wild  like.  It's  mesilf  belaves  he  don't  know  what 
he's  about  at  all,  at  all.  He  got  home  afore  me  lasht 
^ight,  an'  he  bated  little  Tim  so  that  the  poor  child's  flat 


UNCLE  MORTON'S  GIFT.  101 

OB  hh  back  the  day  wid  every  bone  in  him  acbin'.  An 
Maggie,  she's  in  bed  wid  a  fayver  like,  though  the  docthor 
says  there's  no  inflection  about  it.  An'  Molly  fell  agin  the 
ehtove  yestherday  an'  burruned  her  poor  airm  to  a  blish- 
ther.  So  ye  see,  miss,  we're  in  a  peck  o'  throuble  in- 
tirely 

Silvie. — Indeed,  I  should  think  so.  I  am  very  sorry. 
May  I  go  to  your  house  this  afternoon  and  see  if  I  can  do 
anything  for  the  children,  Mrs.  Dolin? 

Mrs.  D. — May  yez,  is  it?  Jist  listen  till  her,  now  I 
Dade,  miss,  they  couldn't  be  more  pleased  to  see  youi 
shwate  face  if  ye  was  a  blissed  angel  fl-om  heaven  I  It's 
meself  wad  like  to  be  there  this  minute,  lookin'  afther  the 
poor  things ;  but  if  I  was  to  shtay  wid  thim,  where  wad  I  b« 
afther  gettin'  the  money  to  kape  a  dacint  roof  over  theii 
heads,  not  to  miution  the  bit  dhresses  an'  jackets  an'  sicb 
like,  an'  the  bread  an'  praties  they  has  to  ate. 

Lucie.— You  may  give  me  a  dozen  oranges  and  a  pound 
of  figs,  Mrs.  Dolin. 

Ilrs.  D.  (beginning  to  do  them  up). — Faith,  it's  a  fine 
young  leddy  ye  are,  miss  I  I  hope  ye'Il  find  thim  as  shwate 
as  honey. 

Lucie. — Don't  you  find  it  very  cold  sitting  here  with 
nothing  but  that  little  shawl  over  your  head  ?  I  should 
think  you  would  freeze. 

3frs.  D. — Dade,  miss,  I  think  I  shall  some  o'  these  days 
Sure  I  couldn't  shtand  it  at  all,  at  all,  if  I  didn't  jist  kapt 
thiukin'  o'  the  childher. 

Silvie. — I  think  we  will  go,  now,  Lucie.  Good-morning 
Mrs.  Dolin. 

Lucie. — Good-morning. 

Mrs.  D. — The  same  to  ye  both,  an*  may  every  momin^ 
be  betther  and  betther  as  long  as  ye  live  I 


102  UWCLE  -MORTON'S  GIFT. 

Scene  IV. 

A  very  bare  room.    Pine  table,  a  wooden  chair,  a  Uiree-legged 

stool,  a  small,  rusty  stove  with  no  fire  in  it.  An  old  bed- 
stead or  settee  in  one  corner  covered  with  faded  patch-work 
quilt.  Jimmie  White  lying  thereon  with  an  old  picturebooh 
and  some  pieces  of  broken  toys  beside  him.   A  knock  is  heard. 

Jimmie. — Come  in. 

{Enter  Silvie  and  Arthur.) 

Si-hie  (going  to  bedside). — Well,  Jimmie,  how  are  you 
*o-day  ?    Is  tlie  pain  in  your  back  very  bad  ? 

Jimmie. — Yes'm,  pretty  bad,  but  not  so  bad  as  it  is  some- 
times. 

Silvie. — I  have  brought  a  friend  of  mine  to  see  you. 
His  name  is  Arthur  Jackson,  Arthur,  this  is  Jimmie 
White. 

Arthur  (shaking  hands  with  Jivimie). — I  say,  old  chap, 
do  you  have  to  lie  here  all  the  time  ? 

Jimmie. — Oh,  yes. 

Arthur. — Well,  now,  I  call  that  tough.  Who  looks  afte? 
you? 

Jimmie. — My  mother  does.  But  she  goes  out  to  work 
for  folks  when  she  can  get  anything  to  do,  and  then  I  have 
to  stay  here  alone. 

Arthur. — Don't  you  get  lonesome? 

Jimmie. — Awful  lonesome. 

Arthur. — I  see  you've  got  a  book  there.  Do  you  like  to 
read? 

Jimmie. — I'd  read  all  the  time  if  I  could  get  anything 
to  read.  My  mother  finds  an  old  newspaper  sometimes, 
»nd  once  the  folks  where  she  was  workin'  gave  her  this  old 
yicturebook. 

Arthur, — What  do  you  have  to  eat  ? 


UXCLE    MORTON'S   GIFT.  103 

Jimmie.— Potatoes  and  bread  and  once  in  a  while  some 
soup.  Christinas  Day  we  had  some  meat,  but  I  couldn't 
eat  it. 

Arthur. — Don't  you  ever  have  rice  or  farina  or  oranges 
or  grapes  or  figs  or  jelly  or  cocoa  or  anything  nice? 

Jimmie. — My  !  I  guess  not !  We're  too  poor  to  buy  such 
things. 

Arthur. — (Jracious!  If  I  can't  have  everything  of  that 
kind  when  I'm  sick,  I  think  it's  pretty  hard  times.  But 
look  here,  Jimmie,  your  fire's  all  gone  out!  Don't  you 
waut  me  to  make  one  for  you  ?  I  should  think  you'd  freeze 
to  death.  This  room  is  as  cold  as  a  barn.  Where  is  your 
coal  and  kindling-wood  and  shavings? 

Jimmie. — There  ain't  any. 

Arthur. — My  stars  and  garters  !  If  that  don't  beat  me. 
Look  here,  youug  fellow.  You  wouldn'ts'pose  I  could  carry 
coal  and  wood  and  blaukets  and  books  and  good  things 
to  eat  iu  my  pocket,  would  you  ?  But  I  can,  though. 
Miss  Sllvie,  shall  I  escort  you  to  one  of  the  stores 
around  the  corner,  or  will  you  wait  here  till  I  come  for 
you? 

Silvie. — I  think  I'll  go  now.    Good-bye,  Jimmie. 

Jimmie. — Good  bye. 

Scene  V. 
The  Jacksons'   sittina-room.      Enter    Silvie,   Alice,   Lucte^ 
jirtnut. 

Alice. — Oh,  Silvie !  I'm  afraid  you  are  very  artfu-1.  What 
a  cunning  plot  you  laid  for  us  all. 

Silvie  (laugJiing). — You  needn't  have  fallen  into  it  so 
easily  as  you  did.  I  didn't  ask  you  to  buy  dresses  and 
shoes  and  cloaks  and  color-boxes  for  Annie  Carter  and 
her  sister.    Lucie  had  Mrs.  Dolin  bundled  up  in  a  warm 


104  UNCLE  MORTON'S   GIFT. 

hood  and  shawl,  and  every  one  of  the  little  Dolins  pro 
vided  with  woolen  stockings  and  a  pair  of  shoes  almost 
before  I  knew  what  she  was  about.  And  the  way  Arthur 
whisked  me  in  and  out  of  one  store  after  another  to  get 
the  things  for  Jimmie  White !  You  would  have  thought 
he  had  a  hundred  dollars  at  his  command  instead  of 
twelve. 

Arthur. — Wasn't  it  fun,  though,  Miss  Silvie  ? 

Silvie. — Yes,  indeed  it  was.  You  see,  Alice,  I  have  be- 
come interested  in  these  poor  people.  But,  you  know,  I 
haven't  much  money  of  my  own,  so  I  thought  I  could  at 
least  give  you  the  chance  of  doing  what  I  would  do  myself 
if  I  could. 

Alice. — To  be  serious,  Silvie,  I  am  heartily  glad  that 
you  did  give  us  such  a  chance.  I  was  never  so  thoroughly 
satisfied  as  I  am  now  with  the  way  I  used  Uncle  Morton's 

gift. 

Lucie. — Nor  I. 

Arthur. — Nor  I.  It  was  regularly  jolly.  And  now^ 
girls,  I  move  we  give  Miss  Silvie  a  vote  of  thanks,  and 
that  we  all  enjoy  ourselves  in  the  same  way  next  year* 
All  in  favor  say  aye. 

Alice  and  Lucie. — Aye  I 

Arthur. — The  ayes  have  it. 

[Curtain  falls.] 

LiLiAU  F.  Wella. 


THE   OPENING   ADDRESS.  105 

THE  OPENING  ADDRESS. 

CHABACTERS. 
Jack,  Tom,  and  Dan. 

Scene  I. 
The  speech  in  preparation. 

Jack  (soliloquizing). — Well,  I  am  in  a  fix — a  decided  fix, 
Here's  Exhibition  Day  close  at  band,  and  I  am  expected 
to  deliver  tbe  "  Opening  Address,"  and  I  bave  no  more 
idea  wbat  to  say  tban  "  tbe  man  in  tbe  moon."  Let  me 
Bee!  I  must  try  to  make  up  sometbing  for  tbe  occasion. 
\_Looking  aroxDid^  Tbere  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  one 
around,  so  I  tbink  I'll  bave  a  little  private  rebearsal  in  the 
solitude  of  these  grand  old  woods.  I  believe  it  is  customary 
in  these  opening  addresses  first  to  make  a  jirofound  bow 
[6on;s],  and  then  to  commence  something  like  this:  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  we  are  glad  to  welcome  you  here  to  this, 
our  annual  entertainment,  and  we  hope — we  hope — and  we 
hope — \_Commences  again  in  a  louder  tone.']  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,  we  are  glad  to  welcome  you  here  to  this  our 
annual  entertainment,  and  we  hope — we  hope — 

Dan  (who  has  entered  %vith  Tom,  unperceived). — And  we 
hope  that  you  are  not  taking  leave  of  your  senses.  Jack. 

Tom. — Nor  contemplating  going  on  the  stage — 

Dan. — Nor  suffering  from  an  attack  of  brain  fever. 
But  really,  Jack,  I  am  afraid  we  startled  you.  You  look 
frightened  and  a  little  sheepish,  too.  Do  tell  us  what  you 
were  doing,  that's  a  good  fellow. 

Tom. — Yes,  where  are  all  those  ladies  and  gentlemen 
whom  you  were  addressing?  And  wbat  is  it  you  hope  to 
do?  There's  some  joke  ahead,  I  know,  and  you  may  ai 
well  own  up. 


108  THE   OPENING   ADDRESS. 

Jack. — "Well,  I  will ;  and  although  it  may  seem  a  jokt 
to  you,  I  assure  you  it's  anything  but  a  joke  to  me.  I 
never  felt  more  serious  in  my  life  than  I  do  this  minute. 

Tom. — If  that's  the  case,  maybe  we  can  do  something  for 
you. 

Dan. — Yes,  give  us  the  chance  to  be  the  "  friends  in 
ueed,"  won't  you.  Jack  ? 

Jack  (brightening^. — That's  so !  I  believe  you  are  the 
very  fellows  to  help  me  out  of  this  fix.  I  wonder  that  I 
did  not  think  of  it  before.  But  "  three  heads  are  better 
than  one,"  you  know.  Well,  then,  to  tell  the  truth,  boys, 
I  was  trying  to  compose  a  little  opening  speech  for  our 
school  entertainment  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  after  the 
first  stereotyped  sentence,  I  got  hopelessly  lost ;  but  here 
you  are  to  help  me  out  of  the  maze,  and  set  me  on  my  feet 
again. 

Dan. — Is  that  all  your  trouble  ?  Then  cease  to  groan, 
for  Tom  and  I  will  set  you  right  in  a  few  minutes.  We 
know  all  about  it,  for  we've  been  through  the  mill,  haven't 
we,  Tom? 

Tom. — That  we  have !  and  if  you  will  take  our  advice, 
Jack,  and  act  upon  some  hints  that  we  will  give  you,  I  will 
venture  to  assert  that  you  will  get  through  with  your  speech 
famously,  and  will  sit  down  amid  such  deafening  applause 
that  you  will  begin  to  feel  as  though  you  were  a  born 
Demosthenes  with  a  great  and  glorious  future  before  you. 

Dan. — Yes,  and  you  will  wonder  how  it  was  that  you 
or  your  friends  had  not  discovered  these  signs  of  geniua 
before. 

Jack. — Oh,  I'm  not  quite  so  conceited  as  all  that,  boys, 
but  I  am  really  anxious  to  hear  your  suggestions,  as  I  have 
ttot  yet  one  good  idea. 

Tom. — Well,  then,  we  will  proceed  at  once  to  businesa 
9 


THE   OPENING   ADDRESS.  107 

When  you  get  up  to  make  your  speech,  Jack,  you  must 
look  neither  to  the  right  uor  the  left,  but  gaze  blankly 
ahead  at  nothiug ;  and  when  you  feel  your  heart  rising  up 
in  your  throat,  and  a  mist  coming  over  yon.r  eyes  and  a 
weakness  into  your  knees,  make  a  tremendous  effort  to 
appear  perfectly  at  ease,  and  your  audience  will  never 
suspect  that  you  are  standing  upon  "pins  and  needles," 
wishing  that  something  would  happen  to  hide  you  from 
their  gaze. 

Dan. — And  then,  when  you  feel  the  "  silence  of  death  " 
around  you,  commence  with  your  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
we  are  glad  to  welcome  you  here  to  this  our  school  anni- 
versary, and  we  hope  that  our  exercises  at  this  time  will 
meet  with  your  approbation  and  will  prove  to  you  that  we 
are  making  earnest  efforts  to  improve  our  time  and  oppor- 
tunities. And  although  we  do  not  expect  to  become  Platos 
or  Ciceros,  yet  we  do  hope  to  grow  into  wise  and  useful 
men,  exerting  an  influence  for  the  good  of  mankind  in  what- 
soever station  of  life  we  may  be  placed." 

Tom. — Then  bring  in  the  plea  about  your  extreme  youth, 
you  know,  something  like  this:  "Many  of  us  are  very 
young,  and  therefore  we  ask  you  not  to  criticise  too  harshly 
any  mistakes  or  imperfections  that  you  may  notice  at  this 
time.  We  hope  that  as  we  grow  older  our  wisdom  will  in- 
crease with  our  years,  and  that  the  knowledge  we  are  daily 
gaining  in  the  school-room  will  better  prepare  us  to  meet 
the  stern  realities  of  life  when  they  are  presented  to  us." 

Dan. — And  then,  when  you  have  quoted  the  favorite  ex- 
pression that  has  been  put  into  the  mouths  of  all  the  sage 
little  orators  in  our  big  country,  namely — "  Where  should 
we  look  for  our  future  statesmen  and  Presidents  but  to  the 
public  schools  of  our  own  beloved  America  ?" — then,  I  say, 
when  you  have  have  said  this  in  a  solemn  and  impre* 


108  THE   OPENING    ADDRESS. 

give  manner,  you  can  proceed  to  wind  up  your  address 
with  thanks  to  the  audience  for  their  attendance. 

Jack. — And  with  some  remarks  about  the  exercises  that 
are  to  follow.  Yes,  I  think  I  can  do  that  part  all  right. 
And  now  I'll  go  and  think  over  the  speech  and  fix  it  just 
as  I  mean  to  say  it  on  the  stage  to-morrow  afternoon. 

Tom. — And  we'll  be  on  hand,  Jack,  to  help  you  bear 
your  honors. 

Jack. — All  right.     I'm  off  now  to  prepare  my  speech. 
[Curtain.] 

Scene  II. 
The  speech. 

Jack. — Ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  are  glad  to  welcome 
you  here  to  this  our  school  anniversary,  and  we  hope  that 
our  exercise — our  sexercise  [he  begins  to  get  excited — vripes 
his  face  and  runs  his  ha)ids  through  his  hair'] — our  serexcises 
at  this  time  will  meet  with  your  approbation  and  will 
prove — will  prove  that  you  are  making — that  is,  that  you 
are  trying  to  make — or,  rather,  to  improve — your  time  and 
opportunities.  And  although  we  do  not  expect — do  not 
expect — er — we  do  not  expect — er-ate  to  become  Catos  and 
Pliceros,  yet  we  hope  to  grow — to  grow — up — [m  a  desper- 
ate tone,  and  mopping  his  face  violently']  to  grow  till  we  are 
grown  up— thereby  exhorting  in  affluence  for  the  good  of 
men-kind,  in  whatever  life  in  the  station-house  we  may  be 
p'liced.  Many  of  us  are  very  young— many  of  us  are 
very  young  and  some  of  us  are  very  young — yes,  many  of 
you  are  mere  babes — and  therefore  we  ask  you  not  to 
criticise  too  harshly  any  mismakes  that  you  may  take  at 
this  or  any  other  time.  Therefore— we  hope  as  you  grow — 
bigger — our  age  will  increase  with  our  years,  and  that  the 


HAVE    A    SHINE,    SAn?  109 

marbles  we  are  daily  gaining  in  the  school-yard  will  prfr 
pare  us  the  better  for  the  real  sternalities  of  life  when 
they — when  they  [gesturing  wildly] — when  they — there- 
fore— where  should  we  look  for  our  future  fratesmen  and 
stesideuts  but  to  the  scublie  pools  of  our  be-lown  loved 
America?  We  thank  you  for  your  attendance  here  and  we 
hope — we  do  hope — that  you  will  enjoy  the  fleeches  thai 
are  to  spollow — which  are  worse  if  not  better  than  the  one 
you  have  just  heard — I  mean — that  is — which  are  better  ii 
not  worse  than  the  one  I  have  just  heard.  {^Retires  in  con- 
fusion.'] 

L.  J.  AND  E.  C.  Rook. 


HAVE  A  SHINE, 

SAH? 

CHARACTERS. 

Bootblack. 

COCNTRYMAK. 

Newsboy. 

Dude. 

Policeman. 

Scene,  on  the  street. — Bootblack  and  Newsboy  standing 
on  the  street.  Bootblack  with  his  kit  and  brush  ready  foi 
action.  Newsboy  well  supjjlied  ivith  jmpers.  Enter  Coun- 
tryman in  very  old-fashioned  clothing  and  coarse  boots. 

Newsboy  (addressing  Countryman). — Papers,  boss?  Times, 
Press,  Herald,  Record.  All  the  latest  news.  Bank  rob- 
bery in  New  York.  Jolly  elopement.  Pictures  of  the 
man  to  be  hung  to-morrow  in  six  positions ;  best  that  can 
Oegot!  [Displaying  a  pictured  paper.']  Only  two  cents, 
sir.     Have  a  copy  ? 

Bootblack. — Shine,  sah?     Hab  yer  boots  shined? 

Countryman  (spurning  the  offered  papers). — Clear  the 
kack  wi'  yer  papers  I     I've  got  an  almanac,  I  reckon. 


tlO  HAVE  A   SHINE,   SAH? 

Neivsboy  (talcing  a  step  backward). — Better  have  a  pape^ 
boss !     All  tlie  latest  news. 

Bootblack. — Hab  a  shine,  sah  ?  [Flourishing  his  brush.} 
Grib  yer  boots  a  lubly  shiiie,  massa. 

Countryman. — Don't  kere  if  I  do,  seein'  ye're  so  willin.' 
It'll  tickle  Martha.  She  says  boots  oughter  be  black.  I 
hios'ly  use  lard-ile,  that's  best.  But  leu'  me  yer  brush, 
youugster. 

Bootblack  {placing  his  kit  in  position  to  receive  the  heavy 
boot). — Sot  yer  foot  up  yer,  sah. 

Countryman  {using  the  kit  as  a  boot-jack). — I  swan,  this 
thing  ain't  half  so  good  as  the  stair  door  to  pull  off  a  feller's 
boot !     'Taiut  got  no  hold,  no  how !     [^Kicking  it  over.'] 

Bootblack. — Whoa,  sah  ?  yer  spillen  ob  de  blacknen  an 
opsottin'  ob  de  kit.  Dar,  massa,  sot  up  yer  hansum  boot, 
Bomewise  so.     [Lifting  the  booted  foot  to  position  on  the  kit.~\ 

Countryman. — What  comes  next?  [Shaking  his  foot 
restlessly.'] 

Bootblack. — I  shines  him  up  lubly,  sah.  You  does  de 
holden  still.     [Applies  the  brush.] 

Countryman. — Great  stars!  you  shine  'em  an'  don't  pull 
'em  off!  When  I  grease  'em,  I  allers  puts  'em  on  me  hand 
and  roasts  it  in. 

{Enter  Dude,  dressed  in  the  most  approved  dudish  styte.) 

Bootblack  {looking  up  from  his  polishing  and  doffing  his 
worn  hat  to  th6  Dude). — Hab  a  shine,  sah  ?  Jus'  a  moment 
ob  delay.    [Rubbing  rapidly  at  the  Countryman's  boot] 

(Dude  swings  h  is  cane  and  ivalks  loftily.) 

Nexvsboy. — Papers,  mister  ?  Herald,  Times,  Press,  World, 
Ledger,  Record.     All  the  latest  sensations ! 

Dude  {pausiyig  and  raising  his  eye-glasses,  with  a  drawl). 
— Ah  leave  ah  World  ah  and  ah  Press  at  ah  numba 
fourteen. 


HAVE    A    SHINE,   SAH  ?  Ill 

Neu'shoy. — Yes,  sir.     Five  cents,  mister ! 

Bade. — Ah,  ah  !  [  With  some  difficulty  finding  his  pocket 
mnd  the  change.']  The  tihiioyance  and  iusignifahcance  of 
change ! 

Bootblack  (to  Countryman,  as  he  gives  his  boot  a  finish- 
ing polish). — Dat  hab  a  lubly  shine  now,  massa.  You 
'spect  him  jus'  a  moment  till  I  sees  dis  gen'lman. 

{Countryman  takes  his  foot  down  awkardly  and  continues 
to  gaze  ivith  amazement  at  the  Dude,  twisting  his  neck  to  see 
the  wonder  in  different  positions.) 

(Bootblack,  loith  a  quick  movement,  sets  his  kit  beside  the 
Dude.') 

Dude  (to  Newsboy,  as  he  gives  him  the  pennies  for  papers). 
— Deliver  the  papers  ahmediately,  boy. 

Newsboy. — Yes,  sir. 

(Neivsboy  moves  to  the  side  of  the  stage  and  employs  him- 
self arranging  his  stock  of  papers,  counting  his  change,  and 
examining  the  contents  of  his  pockets.) 

Bootblack  (looking  up  and  down  the  street,  to  Dude). — 
Dar  amn't  a  gall  in  sight,  massa.  I-I  be  lookin'  sharp. 
Hab  a  small  shine  ?     ^Flourishing  his  brush.'] 

Dude  (raising  his  glasses  and  looking  up  and  down  the 
street). — Ah!  yes.  [Putting  his  small  and  finely  polished 
boot  on  the  kit]  Whisk  ah  the  dust  with  ah  delicate 
brush. 

(Bootblack  jerks  a  fine,  light  brush  from  his  pocket,  with 
which  he  rapidly  du^ts  the  boot  a  moment,  Dude  meanwhile 
holding  his  eye-glasses  and  peering  up  and  down  the  street.) 

Bootblack.— Dar,  dat's  lublier  dan  a  mirror.  Now,  gib 
me  de  uder,  massa ! 

Dude. — Ah!  [Exchanging  the  position  of  the  feet] 
Bootblack  (rubbing  a  moment).— 'Novf  dat  am  handsomei 
dan  nothen. 


112  HAVE   A   SHINE,   SAhJ 

{Dade  removes  his  foot,  strokes  down  his  tights,  and  a» 
Bumes  an  erect,  superb  attitude.^ 

{Bootblack  doffs  his  cap  and  quickly  sets  his  kit  beside  thi 
awestruck  Countryman.) 

Newsboy  {moving  a  step  or  two  forward,  to  Dude).— 
Yer  pardou,  mister !  Any  special  orders  fur  to-morrer ! 
Great  news  of  the  execution  an  other  embezzlein  to  be  in 
World,  Press,  Herald,  Record,  Times,  Tribune.  Great  run 
on  these  papers. 

Dude. — Ah !  ^Readjusting  his  glasses  and  trtying  with 
his  watch  chain.']  I  thought  you  had  ah  gone.  You  may 
leave  me  ah  Press  and  ah  Times  ahmedially  to-morrow. 
[  With  increased  drawl.]     Ahmedially,  remember. 

Newsboy. — I  deliver  quicker  'an  wink,  mister.  [  Walks 
rapidly  off  the  stage.] 

Bootblack  {who  had  been  waiting  a  moment  or  two  with  his 
hit  beside  the  Countryman,  who  appeared  too  fully  overawed 
by  the  Dude  to  notice  his  presence). — Maasa,  pleas'  sot  up 
dat  uder  boot  till  I  shine  um. 

{Exit  Dude,  with  a  leisurely  gait,  swinging  his  cane.") 

Countryman  {in  a  rather  hushed  tone). — What  kind  o' 
critter  was  that,  Darkie?  \_Lifting  his  unpolished  boot 
slightly.] 

Bootblack. — Sot  um  boot,  so  !  \_Assisting  it  to  positiom  on 
the  kit.]     Which,  massa?     IBubbing  the  boot  vigorously.] 

Countryman. — Why,  that  there  crane  or  whatever  ye 
t3all  sich  animals ;  that  'mazin'  curious  thing  with  spindle 
shanks  and  cocked  up  head  what  ye  jus'  shined.  Do  they 
often  come  inter  town  ? 

Bootblack  {grinning  as  he  rubs). — Oh,  dat  were  a  man, 
sah.  Dudes  da  call  um.  Regular  cus'mers  when  dar  no 
walls  out.     I  sees  lots  o'  um. 

Countryman.— Yon  don't  stuff  me  with  no  sich  yam' 


HAVE  A  SHINE,  8 AH?  113 

They're  scarce  as  piziu',  I'll  vow.  Barnum's  been  burned  out 
agin,  sure  as  ye  live,  an'  this  thing's  got  loose.  The  queerest 
critter  I  ever  sot  eyes  on !  Them  boots  is  getten  to  shine 
like  Sambo. 

Bootblack  (applying  the  brush  more  rapidly). — Hab  to 
charge  yer  double  {)rice,  sah.     Day's  mighty  hard  tu  shine. 

Countryman  (surprised). — What's  that  grumblin'  'bout 
charge  ? 

Bootblack. — Ten  cents,  massa,  when  I'se  done.  Day's 
'maziu'  hard  to  shine. 

Countryman  (jerking  down  his  foot). — Git  out !  Nobody 
hired  you  fur  this  job.  I'd  enough  sooner  hav  a  layer  uf 
decent  grease  on  me  boots.  Make  a  fellow  stick  here  half 
an  hour  on  one  leg  an'  rub  a  clean  dollar's  worth  of  leather 
off  his  boots,  then  tax  im  ten  cents  fur  it.  No  you  don't ! 
[Kicking  the  kit  over.']  Git  out !  [Kicking  toward  the 
Bootblack.] 

[Enter  Policeman  quietly.] 

Bootblack  (affrighted,  backing  off). — Please,  sah,  don't 
trable  on  me  brushes  and  smash  um  box. 

Countryman  (to  Bootblack). — I'll  shine  ye!  rubbin'  all 
the  grease  and  leather  off  a  man's  boot  an'  clamin'  pay  fur 
the  distruction  of  it,  I'll  knock  yer  box  inter  kindlen 
wood.     [Giving  the  kit  a  pound  ivith  the  heel  of  his  boot] 

Policeman  (taking  the  Countryma7i's  arm). — Better  come 
along  with  me,  friend,  and  leave  the  boy  to  his  trade. 

Countryman  (resisting). — Not  much  !  You  cum  with  me, 
if  there's  any  cumin'  done.  [Policeman  and  Countryman 
scuffle  quickly  off  the  stage.] 

Bootblack  (grins  at  their  exit,  sighs  while  gathering  up  hit 
Kottered possesions,  puts  his  brush  and  blacking  in  the  kit).-^ 
Dar  am  many  hard  ways  ob  gettin'  an'  not  gettin'  a  liben. 
[Curtain  falls.] 

.Mbs.  S.  L.  Obebholtkeb. 


114  BOLD  FOR   THE   RIGHT. 


BOLD  FOR  THE  EIGHT. 

chakactebs. 
Harky  Stevens.  Eddie  Taylor.  Jack  Wimon. 

E7iter  Harry  from  one  side  of  platform  and  Eddie  from  thi 
other,  meeting  in  the  middle.  Harry  carries  school  booh 
in  a  strap.  Eddie  has  book  pushed  up  under  his  jacket, 
which  is  buttoned  over  it. 

Harry. — Hello,  Eddie !     Where  are  you  going  ? 

Eddie  (in  mysterious  manner). — Don't  say  anything, 
Harry,  but  the  fact  is  I'm  not  going  to  school  to-day.  I'm 
going  to  play  hooky ! 

Harry. — I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,  Eddie.  It's  not  altogether 
right,  you  know.     What  did  you  do  with  your  bo»iks  ? 

Eddie. — Here  they  are.  \_Showing  them  %mder  jacket'] 
I'm  going  down  to  the  creek  to  see  Jack  Wilson,  and  then 
I'm  going  in  swimming.  No  school  for  me,  a  nice  day  lika 
this. 

Harry. — See  Jack  Wilson,  did  you  say  ?  Where  are  you 
going  to  find  him?    Has  he  come  home? 

Eddie. — Didn't  you  know  ?  He  came  back  to  town  last 
night.  There's  a  crowd  of  us  fellows  going  down  to  meet 
him  this  morning.  He's  sure  to  be  down  by  old  Peter's 
boat-house,  and  we're  going  to  get  him  to  tell  us  all  about 
his  voyage.     Won't  you  come  along,  Harry? 

Harry. — I'm  afraid  I  can't,  Eddie.     You  see — 

Eddie. — O  you're  afraid  of  a  whipping,  are  you? 
Well,  then,  you'd  better  not  come.  Jack  don't  like 
cowards. 

Harry. — No,  I'm  not  afraid  of  a  whipping  at  all,  but  1 
wouldn't  like  to  deceive  mother.  She  always  says  she  can 
trust  me,  and  I  always  want  her  to  say  that.     I'd  like  first 


BOLD  FOR  THE  RIGHT.  115 

rate  to  see  Jack,  but  I  won't  play  truant  to  see  him  or  any- 
body else. 

Eddie. — What  a  good  boy  you  are !  It's  not  the  first 
time  I've  hooked  it,  aud  it  won't  be  the  last,  either.  I 
don't  like  being  cooked  in  a  school-room  these  warm  days. 
It's  much  better  fun  to  swim  down  there  below  the  boat- 
house.  The  water's  just  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  you  don't 
know  how  cool  and  pleasant  it  makes  you  feel  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  Better  come,  Harry.  You  can  hide  your  books 
under  the  hedge  over  there  and  get  them  as  you  go  back. 

Harry. — But  then  I  shall  miss  to-day's  lessons,  and  that 
will  throw  me  back,  aud  you  know  I  want  to  be  number 
one  next  month. 

Eddie. — Well,  if  you'd  rather  be  number  one  than  enjoy 
a  swim,  you'd  better  go  to  school.  I'm  not  ambitious  that 
way.  The  last  bench  is  just  as  comfortable  as  the  first  one, 
I  think. 

Harry. — I  wonder  if  one  day  would  make  much  differ* 
ence? 

Eddie.—]^o,  of  course  it  wouldn't.  You  could  easily 
catch  up.  Besides,  that  other  little  fellow  is  sure  to  make 
half  a  dozen  bad  misses  before  the  month's  out,  and  you  can 
walk  ahead  of  him.  Tell  your  mother  you  didu't  feel  well 
aud  thought  some  fresh  air  would  do  you  good. 

Harry. — But  I  do  feel  well. 

Eddie. — O  you're  too  particular  altogether.  However, 
if  you're  not  coming  I  must  go,  because  if  I  don't  hurry  I 
may  miss  Jack,  and  I  want  to  hear  the  story  he  has  to  tell 
about  meeting  the  "  Flying  Dutchman,"  the  phantom  ship, 
you  know. 

Harry. — Is  he  going  to  tell  about  that  ? 

Eddie. — O  yes,  and  the  boys  say  he  can  spin  sailori' 
yarns  like  an  old  salt.    You'd  better  come  I 


116  BOLD   FOR   THE   RIGHT. 

Harry. — Shall  I?  No!  It's  a  big  temptation,  bui,  1 
won't  yield  to  it,  Eddie.     School  is  the  place  for  me. 

Eddie. — All  right,  then.  I'll  tell  Jack  how  much  you 
think  of  him.  O  my,  won't  he  laugh  when  I  tell  him  that 
Harry  Stevens  was  afraid  to  play  truant,  because  he  thought 
his  mother  might  find  it  out  and  whip  him  for  it?  Jack 
will  enjoy  that ! 

{Enter  Jack  quieUij.    He  overhears  la^t  remark.) 

Jack. — Laugh,  will  he,  Eddie?  Enjoy  it,  will  he?  Well, 
maybe  the  Jack  who  ran  away  might ;  but  the  Jack  who 
returned  won't.  His  year's  voyage  has  taught  him  what  a 
foolish,  silly,  wicked  boy  he  was  to  play  truant,  neglect  his 
studies,  and  disobey  his  poor  old  mother,  who  died  while 
he  was  away. 

Eddie. — O  never  mind  preaching.  Jack,  come  down — 

Jack. — Not  yet,  Eddie.  I  don't  wonder  you  are  ashamed 
of  yourself  and  want  to  get  away.  Don't  you  know  it  was 
very  wrong  of  you  to  think  of  stopping  away  from  school 
yourself?  I  hope  you're  sorry  for  it.  And  don't  you  know 
it  was  still  more  wrong  to  try  to  persuade  Harry  to  do  so, 
and  then  to  ridicule  him  because  he  had  the  courage  to  say 
"No"? 

Eddie. — O,  I  don't  care. 

Jack. — But  you  ought  to  care,  and  you  will  care  some 
day — just  as  I  do  now. 

Harry. — I  think  he  cares.  Jack  ;  but  he  don't  like  to 
own  it.  He  will  come  and  go  to  school  with  me  after  all,  I 
think. 

Eddie. — Well,  if  Jack  won't  spin  any  yarns,  I  suppose  I 
might  as  well. 

Jack. — Jack's  yarns  shall  be  spun  after  school  hours  to 
those  who  answered  the  roll  call  and  to  no  others.  There 
«0Wj  run  away,  both  of  you,  and  remember  always  that 


THE  ART  CRITIC.  HI 

there  is  nothing  brave  or  mauly  or  smart  in  outwitting 
father,  mother,  or  teacher.  The  truant  seldom  comes  to 
any  good,  and  the  idle  scholar  regrets  his  idleness  during 
all  the  days  of  his  life.  Take  Harry  as  your  model,  Eddie, 
and  when  bad  boys  ask  you  to  do  what  you  know  to  be 
wrong,  then  be  truly  brave  and  manly  and  bold  for  the 
right,  and  say  "No,"  and  stick  to  it.    Will  you  try? 

Eddie.— Yes,  I'll  try ! 

Harry. — And  now  hurry,  or  we  shall  both  be  late.  [^Exit 
Harry  mid  Eddie  one  way  and  Jack  the  other.'] 

Charles  Stokes  Wayne. 


THE  ART  CRITIC. 


CHARACTEKS. 


Attnt  Nancy,  a  quaint  old  lady  in  quaint  costume. 

Isabel,  her  niece,  a  girl  of  twelve  or  fourteen  years  in  modem  attire. 

Scene. — An  ordinary  sitting-room.  Aunt  Nancy,  seated, 
knitting  a  stocking.  Enter  Isabel  with  portfolio  of  en- 
gravings. 

Isabel. — Auntie,  I  think  you  must  be  tired  of  that  ever- 
lasting knit,  knit,  knit,  so  come,  put  your  stocking  away 
and  look  at  these  pictures  I  have  brought  down  to  show 
you. 

Aunt  Nancy. — Yes,  child,  jest  wait  till  I  get  my  glasses 
on,  and  I'll  look  at  your  picters  as  long  as  you  want  me 
to.     \_Puts  on  her  spectacles^ 

Isabel. — What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  It  is  an  engrav- 
ing from  a  painting  by  one  of  the  great  masters — I  cannot 
recall  his  name  just  now — and  I  think  it  very  fine. 

Aunt  N. — Yes,  that  is  fine,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  a  bit 
if  old  Solomon  Doolittle  drawed  that.     He  was  the  great- 


1 18  THE  ART  CRITIC. 

est  master  I  ever  kuowed,  aud  I  tell  you,  the  boys  and  gala 
that  went  to  his  skule  was  'most  afeared  to  wiuk  their 
eyes  when  he  was  around.  And  he  was  a  powerful  hand 
with  the  pen  and  pencil ;  yes,  I  wouldn't  be  afeared  to  bet 
my  last  dollar  that  this  picter  is  his  work. 

Isabel. — No,  Auntie,  that  canuot  be !  But  here's  some- 
thing  you  will  appreciate,  I'm  £ure — the  Madonna,  after 
Raphael. 

Au7it  N. — Madonner  I  It  seems  to  me  I've  heerd  that 
name  afore.     Any  relation  of  yourn,  Isabel  ? 

Isabel. — Hardly,  Aunt  Nancy. 

Aunt  N. — She's  a  purty  creetur.  Turns  her  eyes  up  a 
leetle  too  much,  but  she's  kind  o'  peaceful  lookin'.  I  like 
her  picter  real  fust-rate. 

Isabel. — I  thought  you  would.     Do  you  like  animals? 

Aunt  N. — Yes,  well  enough  in  their  places.  My  !  that 
looks  jest  like  some  of  Deacon  Sly's  pesky  critters. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  they  was  his. 

Isabel. — That  is  one  of  Bonheur's  animals. 

Aunt  N. — Bonyur?  I  don't  know  him,  never  saw  his 
animals,  neither,  but  if  that's  a  photograph  of  'em,  I 
wouldn't  be  afeared  to  set  Deacon  Sly's  agin  'em  any  day 
\_Picks  up  another.']     What's  this? 

Isabel. — That's  a  rural  scene.     You'll  like  that,  I  know. 

Aunt  N. — Do  tell  I  Jest  look  at  that  pig-pen,  it's  a* 
nateral  as  life,  and  there's  the  pig,  too.  It  reminds  me  of 
your  Uncle  Josh,  he  was  so  fond  of  pork. 

Isabel. — Do  you  see  the  mountains  in  the  distance, 
Auntie,  and  the  soft,  beautiful  clouds  above  them  ? 

Aunt  N. — Yes,  I  see  'em,  but  they're  not  as  purty  to  my 
syes  as  the  pigs  and  the  chickens  and  the  turkeys.  Take 
It  away,  it  makes  me  feel  kind  o'  homesick. 

Isabel. — Here's  an  ocean  view.    I  think  this  is  exquisite, 


THE  ART  CRITIC.  119 

Just  look  at  the  wtuste  of  waters,  and  only  this  strip  of 
beach  as  a  foreground. 

A  unt  N. — Well,  of  all  things — Where's  the  picter  ?  That's 
about  as  near  nothiu'  as  the  leetle  end  of  a  pinted  stick. 
Why,  there's  nothin'  to  be  seen  in  it  but  water. 

Isabel. — Perhaps  you'll  like  this  better.  Here  are  some 
ruins  of  ancient  Greece. 

Aunt  N. — O  la !  don't  put  it  down  here  on  my  new 
gownd  if  it's  greasy.  Sho!  you're  jest  makin'  game;  that 
un  is  as  clean  lookin'  as  the  best  of  'em.  My!  but  it  must 
have  been  a  shackliu'  man  that  owned  that  place.  It's  all 
gone  to  rack.  I  think  I'd  hev  spent  the  money  it  took  for 
gettin'  the  picter  took  to  put  it  in  a  leetle  better  repair. 

Isabel. — Ruins  are  not  to  my  taste  either,  Auntie.  Ah  I 
here's  a  gem — these  Corinthian  pillars. 

Aunt  K — Ruther  hard  j)iller8,  I  should  say  ;  look  more 
like  posts.  They're  stood  up,  too.  I  s'pose  that's  so  as  to 
give  a  good  view  of  'em.  Made  for  giants,  by  the  size  of  'em. 
Now,  that  picter's  what  I  call  interestin'.     Got  any  more  ? 

Isabel. — This  snow  scene.  Aunt  Nancy,  is  thought  to  be 
fine. 

Aunt  N. — Now,  I  call  that  real  purty.  I  allers  did  set 
store  by  a  good  snow-storm.  Sort  of  chirks  one  up  to  hea^ 
the  bells  a-jingliu'.  Many  a  sleighin'-party  I  went  to  when 
I  was  a  gal,  and  good  times  we  had  a-dancin'  and  a-eatin' 
the  good  suppers  that  was  got  up.  The  picter  makas  me 
think  of  it  all,  and  I  like  it  fust-rate.  [Takijig  up  another. ] 
O,  here's  a  dear  little  baby.  How  pert  and  sassy  he 
looks !  Jest  for  all  the  world  like  Sal  Smith's  little  Joe, 
only  Joe's  got  a  squint  like  in  one  eye  and  his  nose  turns 
up  a  leetle. 

Isabel. — Not  very  complimentary  to  Greuze's  Infant 
Cherub.     What  do  you  think  of  this  ? 


120  THE  ART  CRITIC. 

Aunt  N".  (scrutinizing  it  closely  and  reading  aloud  th^ 
title). — "  Execution  of  Mary  Smart."  Well,  there!  that's 
the  first  I  kuowed  she  was  dead.  Executed,  too !  I  wondei 
what  she'd  been  and  done  ?  Queer  I  hadn't  heerd  of  it 
afore.  She  was  old  Stuart's  daughter,  you  know,  Isabel, 
down  there  at  Tubbsville. 

Isabel. — Oh,  you're  altogether  mistaken,  Aunt  Nancy. 
This  was  a  beautiful  young  queen,  who  perished  centuries 
ago. 

Aurd  N. — Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  That  is,  I'm  glad 
it's  not  the  gal  I  kuowed,  she  allers  seemed  so  peaceable  like. 

Isabel. — Here  are  two  pretty  little  companion-pieces, 
"  Demanding  Toll "  and  "  Passing  Free."  You'll  under- 
Btand  them  at  a  glance. 

Aunt  N. — I  see  a  gal  and  a  feller  standin'  on  a  bridge, 
but  I  don't  see  no  toll-gate.  O  now  I  know  [laughing'], 
them's  lovyers.  Many  a  time  was  I  asked  to  "  pay  toll " 
when  I  was  young  and  handsome,  but  that  was  so  long  ago 
that  I'd  e'en  a'most  forgot  what  the  sayin'  meant.  Passin' 
free,  is  she?  Well,  she'll  come  back  agin  if  he  coaxeg 
her  up  a  leetle.  It's  nateral  to  fight  shy  for  a  leetle  spell, 
but  they  don't  ginerally  hold  out  long.  I'd  have  them 
framed  and  hung  up. 

Isabel. — Perhaps  I  will  sometime,  but  I  hear  the  lunch, 
bell,  so  let  us  put  them  away  and  finish  looking  at  them 
nome  other  time. 

Aunt  N. — Jest  as  you  say,  Isabel.  I  like  your  picten 
fust-rate.  When  you  come  to  visit  me  I'll  show  you  mj 
chromios.  I  got  most  of  them  at  the  tea-store  down  tc 
Tubbsville,  and  they're  what  I  consider  handsome. 

lExit.'] 

L.  J.  AND  E.  C,  Book. 


BEAVE  BOSTON   BOYS.  12i 


BRAVE  BOSTON  BOYS. 

CHARACTERS. 

QOVERNOB  Gates.  His  Secretary.  Four  Boys. 

Scene. — Four  boys  standing  in  front  of  a  table  at  ivhich 
Secretary  u  writing.  Enter  Governor  Gates.  Takes 
seat  beside  table. 

Governor. — Mr.  Secretary,  what  is  our  business  with 
these  lads? 

Secretary. — They  have  come  to  see  your  Excellency  upon 
a  matter  which  they  had  best  speak  of  themselves. 

Governor. — Well,  boys,  what  is  your  errand? 

First  Boy. — We  are  here,  sir,  to  complain  of  what  your 
soldiers  have  done  to  us.     They  have  outraged — 

Governor. — What !  Have  your  fathers  been  teaching 
you  rebellion  and  sent  you  here  to  show  it  ? 

First  Boy. — Nobody  sent  us,  sir ;  but  if  our  fathers  hate 
oppression,  so  do  we,  and  we  have  come  to  you  for  redress. 

Governor. — Ha,  ha !  a  pretty  piece  of  impudence,  I  de- 
clare. Well,  my  lad  [turns  to  third  boy'],  you  seem  war- 
like enough  to  whip  a  whole  company  of  my  red-coats. 
What  say  you  ? 

Third  Boy. — If  I  were  a  man,  sir,  I  would  teach  them 
better  manners. 

Governor. — What  have  the  soldiers  done  to  you  ? 

First  Boy. — They  have  torn  down  our  snow  hills  and 
broken  our  skating  ponds  and — 

Governor. — That  is  provoking ;  but  even  soldiers  must 
have  their  frolic. 

Fourth  Boy. — We  could  have  excused  one  oflfense,  but 
that  did  not  satisfy  them. 

Governor. — Well,  the  loss  of  a  day's  coasting  is  not  hard 


122  BRAVE   BOSTON   BOYS. 

to  bear.  Ah,  my  boys,  you  follow  the  example  of  youi 
elders  and  make  a  pretext  for  rebellion  out  of  a  trifle. 
The  spirit  is  in  you  all. 

First  Boy. — Then,  sir,  we  have  caught  it  from  our  Eug« 
lish  grandfathers,  if  our  history  books  speak  the  truth. 

Governor  (to  Secretary). — What  youthful  wiseacre  have 
we  here  ?  But  [to  boysl  to  the  purpose.  Have  you  com- 
plained to  the  officers  of  the  troops,  my  boys  ? 

Second  Boy. — John  [indicating  first  hoy'\  and  I  went  to 
the  General,  sir,  and  others  spoke  to  the  Captain,  but  they 
laughed  at  us  and  called  us  little  rebels — 

Third  Boy. — And  told  us  to  help  ourselves  if  we  could. 

First  Boy. — After  this  we  met  at  school,  sir,  and  our 
companions  chose  us  four  to  come  to  you.  We  have  never 
troubled  your  troops,  but  they  will  not  allow  us  to  enjoy 
our  sports,  and  harass  us  as  if  we  had  no  rights  in  our 
own  city. 

Governor. — If  this  is  all  you  learn  at  your  schools,  ray 
boys,  they  had  better  be  closed,  for  you  will  one  day  suffer 
a  greater  harm  than  the  loss  of  an  ice  pond  for  such 
words. 

First  Boy. — But,  sir,  if  a  company  of  American  sol- 
diers— 

Governor. — Be  very  careful,  my  lad;  such  words  are 
dangerous ! 

First  Boy. of  Indians,   or  French,  should   break 

through  the  walls  of  your  forts  and  tear  them  down,  would 
you  not  feel,  sir,  that  you  had  been  abused  and  injured 
enough  to  make  you  turn  upon  them  and  punish  them  ? 
We  cannot  fight  our  own  battles  yet,  and  for  that  reason 
alone  we  ask  your  interference  with  these  insolent  soldiers. 

General  (to  Secretary). — The  very  children  here  draw  in 
a  love  of  liberty  with  the  air  they  breathe.     [^Turning  to 


BRAVE   BOSTON    Bui'S.  123 

I'oys.']  Now,  tell  me,  boys,  you  have  all  heard  of  King 
George  of  England? 

All. — Yes,  sir. 

Governor. — And  of  the  Parliament  ? 

AIL — Yes,  sir. 

Governor. — \yell,  they  are  the  powers  that  by  divine 
right  make  the  laws  for  the  nations  of  which  we  are  all 
subiects.  Now,  if  our  King  wanted  us  to  give  him  our 
purse  for  his  good  and  for  our  own  good,  should  we  not  be 
obedient  to  him  ? 

First  Boy. — If  he  asked  it  of  us  as  a  gift,  sir,  we  might 
from  our  patriotism  or  our  generosity,  give  it  to  him  and  a 
great  deal  more  besides ;  but  if  he  forced  us — 

Governor. — What !  what !  The  very  babes  prattle  trea- 
son in  their  cradles.  Children  must  be  taught  an  humbler 
duty  to  their  King  if  we  would  expect  loyal  men  among  us. 

Fourth  Boy. — But,  sir — 

Governor. — Well,  enough  of  that.  When  did  this  hap- 
pen that  you  speak  of? 

First  Boy. — It  was  on  the  Common,  sir.  Every  winter 
we  build  snow  hills  there  to  coast  our  sleds  on,  and  we  use 
the  ponds  for  skating  grounds.  Last  night  for  the  third 
time  the  hills  were  thrown  down  and  the  ice  cut  and  broken 
in  the  ponds — 

Third  Boy. — Yes,  sir;  and  when  we  came,  before  our 
Bchool  hour  this  morning,  with  our  skates  and  sleds  we 
found  the  Boiled  Lobsters — 

Governor. — What,  lad  ? 

Third  Boy. — O,  that  is  what  the  townspeople  call  the 
red-coats,  sir.  We  f(jund  them  standing  over  our  ground 
with  their  muskets  in  their  hands,  and  they  insulted  us, 
and  threatened  to  shoot  us  if  we  mended  our  hills. 

Oovernor.—  And  what  did  you  do  ? 


124  BHAVE  BOSTON   BOT8. 

Third  Boy. — We  built  up  auother  hill  betore  sciiool,  in 
spite  of  them,  and  then  we  resolved  to  speak  to  you,  sir, 
when  we  were  dismissed. 

Governor  {to  Secretary). — This  is  the  stuff  to  make 
armies  of. 

Secretary. — It  looks,  your  Excellency,  as  if  it  were  likely 
to  form  an  army  before  many  years  pass. 

First  Boy. — If  we  w-ere  old  enough,  sir — 

Governor. — Well,  my  brave  lads,  I  like  your  spirit ;  but 
you  must  learn  to  utter  more  temperate  words. 

All.—J^nt,  sir — 

Governor. — Go  now  and  rest  assured  if  my  troops  trouble 
you  again  they  shall. suffer  punishment  for  it.  \_Governot 
rises  and  starts  to  follow  hoys  to  the  door.  Suddenly  he  ex-, 
claims i]     Hark!  are  there  not  drums  sounding  outside? 

First  Boy  (who  has  already  reached  windoiv  or  door  look- 
ing out). — Yes !  Come,  boys,  the  British  are  out  with  theii 
muskets  and  drums,  and  the  crowd  is  pelting  them  with 
snow-balls.  Bravo,  Dick !  See,  he  struck  the  Corporal's 
hat  off!  They're  fighting !  Come,  we  shall  miss  it !  \_Boyt, 
run  out,  shoiding.'] 

Governor  (turning  to  Secretary). — This  populace  is  as 
fearless  as  the  sea.  No  barrier  can  subdue  it.  What  an 
omen  there  seems  for  us  in  its  roar!  Quick!  send  for  my 
arms.    I  must  quell  this  riot  or  it  will  swell  to  revolution. 

[Curtain.] 

Morris  Harrison. 


JUSTICE.  WB 


JUSTICE. 

characters. 

Mb.  Harding,  Mr.  Martih. 

Franxis  U  arding,  Mrs.  Martin. 

a  boy  of  seventeen.  Harry  Martin. 

Mr.  Brooks,  a  lawyer.  Alice  Martin. 

Scene   I. 
Mr.  HarditKjs  ojjiee.     Mr.  H.  and  Mr.  Brooks  seated  at  a 

table,  writing.     Enter  Francis,  throwing  down  his  books 

and  seating  himself  by  the  table. 

Francis. — Father,  Harry  INlartiu  is  goiug  to  leave  the 
A-cademy.  He  says  his  father  has  lost  so  much  by  the 
contract  to  put  up  those  houses  of  yours  on  State  Street, 
that  he  will  have  to  sell  his  property,  and  Harry  is  going 
to  leave  school  and  go  in  an  office. 

Mr.  Harding. — Yes,  I  believe  that  has  been  a  losing 
business  for  Martin,     It  was  very  unfortunate  for  him. 

Francis. — But,  father,  could  you  not  allow  him  some 
ghare  of  your  profits  on  the  work  ? 

3Ir.  Harding  {somewhat  sternly). — My  son,  you  do  not  un- 
derstand business  transactions.  When  you  are  a  few  years 
older,  I  hope  you  may  have  more  wisdom.  When  the  con- 
tract was  made  neither  of  us  knew  that  the  price  of  labor 
would  advance  so  much.  Had  it  become  cheaper,  the  loss 
would  have  been  mine.  Such  risks  must  always  be  taken 
in  business. 

Franeis  (hesitatingly'). — Father  ? 

Mr.  Harding  (impatiently). — Well. 

Francis. — I  heard  you  and  Mr.  Brooks  talking  last 
evening  about  that  new  railroad  running  across  Mr.  Mar- 
tin's lot.  I  don't  believe  he  knows  anything  about  it,  you 
told  me  not  to  mention  it.     It  will  make  his  land  so  much 


126  JUSTICE. 

more  valuable,  that  if  lie  were  to  sell  that  part,  don't  joh 
thiuk  he  could  keep  his  house? 

Mr.  Harding. — Yes,  if  he  were  not  obliged  to  sell  at 
once,  and  could  keep  it  until  the  railroad  were  au  assured 
thing. 

Francis. — The  road  will  surely  run  through  his  laud, 
Mr.  Brooks  says  it  will  have  to.  [_Eising  and  standing 
before  Mr.  H.}  Father,  won't  you,  to  please  me,  buy  this 
property  and  save  JMr.  Martin  from  becoming  a  bankrupt  ? 

Mr.  Harding. — If  it  is  oflered  for  sale  I  shall  probably 
buy  it.     And  now,  I  have  some  business  with  Mr.  Brooks. 

Francis. — Oh,  thank  you,  father.  Harry  will  be  so 
pleased  if  he  can  keep  on  with  his  studies.  \_Taking  cap 
and  books,  leaves  the  room.'] 

Mr.  Harding  (turning  to  Mr.  Brooks). — I  fear  that  boy 
will  never  make  a  business  man.  If  I  buy  the  property  I 
shall  pay  only  what  it  is  worth  now,  without  any  reference 
to  the  railroad. 

Mr.  Brooks. — Certainly,  sir ;  what  sort  of  a  paradise 
would  we  have  on  this  earth  if  business  men  acted  on  the 
principle  of  the  Golden  Rule  ? 

Mr.  Harding. — There  is  not  a  man  in  the  city  that  would 
do  differently,  and  yet  I  dread  that  boy's  opinion  of  what 
he  will  consider  a  mean  act. 

[Curtain.] 

Scene  II. 
Same  room  as  before.     Mr.  Brooks  alone,  seated,  reading  a 

paper.     Enter  Francis,  who  must  be  dressed  to  look  older 

than  in  last  scene,  with  gloves,  cane,  and  high  hat. 

Francis. — Good-morning,  Mr.  Brooks. 

Mr.  Brooks  {rising.) — Good-morning,  sir;  allow  me,  if 
pot  too  late,  to  offer  my  congratulations  on  your  having 


JUSTICE.  127 

Bttaiued  your  majority.     I  had  no  opportunity  of  doing  M 
yesterday.     \_Handing  F.  a  chair.'] 

Francis. — Tliauk  you,  Mr.  Brooks.  I  have  called  to  in- 
quire about  some  business  matters.  I  have  beeu  anxiously 
looking  forward  to  the  time  wheu  I  would  have  control  of 
my  proj^erty. 

3Ir.  Brooks. — You  have  a  ^arge  income ;  I  had  supposed 
that  was  ampl}-  sufficient  for  you.  I  hope  you  do  not  in> 
tend  taking  up  any  of  the  capital.  I  trust  you  will  con- 
sult me  before  you  invest  it  in  any  new  speculation.  As 
you  know,  your  father  wished  me  to  be  your  legal  adviser, 
as  I  had  always  been  his. 

Francis. — I  do  intend  using  my  capital,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  consider  it  a  very  unwise  investment. 

Mr.  Brooks. — What  do  you  wish  to  do  with  it? 

Frauds. — In  what  I  shall  do,  I  do  not  cast  any  reflections 
on  my  father's  actions.  He  simply  did  what  many  others 
would  have  done. 

Mr.  Brooks. — You  have  not  told  me  yet  what  you  are 
going  to  do. 

Francis. — I  am  going  to  pay  Mr.  Martin  the  balance  duft 
him  on  the  land  father  bought  of  him  about  four  years 
ago. 

Mr.  Brooks. — Wh-at?  I  never  heard  of  such  insanity! 
Why,  that  land  is  worth  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Do  you 
intend  giving  him  that? 

Francis. — What  did  he  receive  for  it  ? 

Mr.  Brooks. — Five  thousand. 

Francis. — Now,  will  you  tell  me  what  you  honestly  be* 
lieve  it  would  have  been  worth  had  it  been  generally  known 
that  the  railroad  would  pass  through? 

Mr.  Brooks. — Well,  I  suppose  it  might  have  brought 
twenty  thousand. 


128  JUSTICE. 

Frauds. — ^Then  I  shall  pay  Mr.  Martin  the  fifteen  thu* 

•jand  dollars. 

Mr.  Brooks. — I  cau  never  consent  to  your  using  yoiu 
money  for  any  such  Quixotic  notion.  He  sold  it  and  w« 
glad  to  get  rid  of  it. 

Francis. — That  is  no  reason  he  should  not  have  what  is 
rightfully  his.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  act  without  your  con- 
sent, for  I  have  intended  doing  it  just  as  soon  as  the  money 
was  in  m^'  possession,    \lxidng.'] 

[Curtain.] 

Scene  III. 
dining-room,  poorly  fnrnished.     Mr.  Martin  reclining  in  a 
chaii    sujtported  by  pillows.      Mrs.   Martin   and    Alice 
sewing. 

(^Enter  Harry,  who  throws  himself  in  a  chair  with  an  air  oj 
weariness.^ 

Mrs.  Martin. — Well,  my  son,  what  fortune  to-day? 

Harry. — Oh,  the  same  old  story.  Clerks  are  being  dis« 
charged  every  day  instead  of  employed.  There  seems  to  be 
DO  work  in  the  city  for  me. 

Mr.  Martin. — Do  not  despair,  Harry.  There  must  be  £ 
place  in  the  world  for  everybody. 

Harry. — Then  my  niche  must  be  in  such  an  obscure  cor- 
ner that  I  cannot  discover  it. 

Alice. — I  shall  not  wait  any  longer.  I  will  write  thie 
evening  and  accept  the  position  Mrs.  Cook  has  offered  me. 

Mrs.  Martin. — Oh,  Alice !  how  can  I  spare  you  to  go  so  fax 
From  us,  and  your  father  so  ill  ? 

Mr.  Martin. — Things  certainly  look  very  dark  for  ug 
[f  I  could  regain  my  strength  it  would  be  all  right,  but 
with  money  gone  and  health  gone,  it  is  a  poor  prospect  foi 
(he  winter. 


JUSTICE.  129 

{Knock  at  the  door.  Alice  admits  Francis.  Mrs.  Martin 
tflaces  a  chair.  Francis  says  "  Good-evening,"  shaking  hands 
with  Harry.) 

Harry. — We  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long  time. 

Francis. — No ;  after  father's  death  I  was  away  with 
mother  for  nearly  two  years.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  are  an 
invalid,  Mr.  Martin. 

Mr.  Martin. — I  trust  I  shall  not  be  so  long. 

Francis. — I  have  called  this  evening  to  speak  about  that 
property  on  Front  Street  you  sold  father.  Did  you  know 
at  that  time  that  its  value  was  likely  to  be  so  much  in- 
creased ? 

Mr.  Martin. — No;  certainly  I  did  not,  or  I  shouldn't 
have  sold  it  for  the  price  I  did. 

Harry. — Father  blames  himself  for  being  so  short-sighted 
as  not  to  have  seen  further  into  the  future.  I  think  hia 
poor  health  is  due  to  his  worrying  over  that  affair. 

Mr.  Martin. — Yes,  yes,  had  I  only  known  the  railroad 
would  soon  cross  the  land,  I  could  have  saved  myself  from 
ruin  and  been  to-day  a  prosperous  man.  Well !  [sighing'^ 
it  can't  be  heljied  now. 

Francis. — No,  Mr.  Martin,  the  last  few  years  of  anxiety 
and  trouble  you  have  passed  through  cannot  be  recalled ; 
but  I  trust  that  a  simple  act  of  justice  may  render  the  out- 
look for  the  future  more  cheerful.  I  felt,  when  I  was  but 
a  boy,  that  it  was  not  just  for  one  to  profit  by  another's 
mistake. 

Mr.  Martin. — I  blame  no  one,  Francis.  I  should  have 
inquired  more  carefully  into  the  matter. 

Francis. — Well,  Mr.  Martin,  we  will  not  ask  who  was  to 
blame.  As  father  bought  the  land,  I  wish  you  to  have  tho 
balance  due  on  what  you  would  have  considered  a  fair 
value  for  \U      Here  is  my  check   for  fifteen  thousand 


130  JUSTICE. 

iollars  that  you  can  use  at  any  time.     [^Holding  a  dieek 
loward  Aim.] 

(J/r.  Martin  leans  forward,  looking  at  Francis  in  surprise.) 

Mr.  Martin. — Why !    I — I  do  not  understand  you. 

Francis. — It  is  simply  this,  sir,  that  I  wish  to  pay  you 
for  your  laud  that  is  now  in  my  possession.  [^Putting  the 
check  in  Mr.  Martinis  /wnc?.] 

Mr.  Martin  (looking  at  the  cheeky. — But,  Francis,  I  can- 
not accept  this.    You  do  not  owe  me  anything. 

Francis. — Perhaps  not,  Mr,  Martin,  from  a  legal  stand< 
point,  but  by  my  standard  of  conscience  I  do.  I  could 
Dever  be  happy,  feeling  that  I  was  enjoying  what  rightfully 
belonged  to  another. 

(Mr.  Martin  leans  hack  in  his  chair  and  covers  his  face 
with  his  hands.) 

Mrs.  Martin  (coming  to  Mr.  Martinis  side). — I  would  that 
all  business  men  acted  on  the  same  principle.  This  is  a 
Qoble  and  generous  act,  for  which  I  hope  you  may  be  amply 
rewarded, 

Francis. — Do  not  look  upon  it  in  the  light  of  a  gift.  It 
is  your  own  money,  though  rather  late  in  coming  to  you. 

Mr.  Martin  (sitting  up). — It  is  an  unselfish  deed  and  one 
worthy  of  you.  My  future  life  will  show  my  gratitude 
better  than  I  can  now  express  it. 

Harry. — My  dear  friend  [taking  the  hand  of  Francis],  I 
believe  you  have  saved  my  father's  life.  This  anxiety  was 
killing  him. 

Alice. — Let  me  thank  you  for  the  load  of  care  you  have 
lifted  from  the  heart  of  my  dear  father  and  mother.  I  was 
beginning  to  doubt  whether  any  one,  nowadays,  lived  by 
the  Golden  Rule,  but  you  have  clearly  proven  to-night  that 
^  stUl  has  force. 

[Curtain.] 

Ella  H.  Clement. 


A  CHRISTMAS    EVE  "ADVENTTJRE.  131 

A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  ADVENTURE. 

CHARACTERS. 

Santa  Claus.  Nellie,  \ 

Mrs.  Santa  Claus.  Harry,  | 

Mr.  Bently.  First  Fairy,       V  Little  childrwi. 

Mrs.  Bently.  Second  Fairy,    1 

A  Young  Lady.  Third  Fairy,     J 

Three  Shepherds.  Several  Adults  and  Children. 

Scene  I. 
A  sitiiJig-room  nicely  furnished.    A  little  boy  and  girl  seated 

in  rocking-chairs. 

Nellie. — Harry,  don't  you  wish  there  were  fairies  news* 
days? 

Harry. — Why,  Nellie,  wnut  a  funny  question !  "What 
could  the  fairies  do  ? 

Nellie. — Help  us  go  to  scb  Santa  Claus,  to  be  sure. 

Harry. — Do  you  think  they  could  do  that  ? 

Nellie. — Of  course  they  could.  Didn't  they  do  all  sort* 
of  wonderful  things  in  my  new  book>  "The  Enchanted 
Princess." 

Harry. — Well  then,  I  wish  they  would  help  us,  for  I  do 
n-ant  to  see  Santa  Claus.  I  am  afraid  he  won't  know  all 
the  things  I  want. 

Nellie. — Do  you  think  we  could  walk  to  his  house  to- 
morrow ? 

Harry. — Walk !    I  guess  not.    He  lives  up  in  the  moon. 

Nellie.— 0\\ !  Then  the  man  in  the  moon  is  Santa 
Claus? 

Harry. — H'm,  I — suppose — so.  I  never  heard  of  but 
Dne  man  up  there. 

Nellie. —  If  that's  where  he  lives,  we  can't  get  there. 
There  is  no  use  in  thinking  about  it. 

Harry. — Oh  dear.     What  shall  we  do  with  ourselves? 


I'd'^  A  CHRISTMAS   EVE   ADVENTURE. 

Nellie. — Mamma  said  I  must  not  come  in  her  room,  and 
Mary  told  me  to  run  out  of  the  kitchen  and  not  be  after 
botherin'  her. 

Harry. — Yes,  and  I  was  going  in  the  library,  when  papa 
came  to  the  door  and  told  me  I  was  not  on  any  account  to 
go  in  that  room. 

Nellie  {yawning). — Everybody  has  something  to  do  but 
us.     I  am  so  sleepy,  I  wish  it  was  bedtime. 

Harry. — I  am  sleepy,  too.  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,  Nel- 
lie ;  let's  take  a  nap  till  supper-time. 

Nellie. — Well,  suppose  we  do,  then  we  won't  be  both» 
ering  anybody.     Shut  your  eyes,  and  I'll  shut  mine. 
{Both  lean,  back  in  their  chairs  and  close  their  eyes.') 
[Curtain.] 

Scene  II. 
Same  room.    Children  sleeping. 

Mrs.  Bently  (comes  in  and  looks  at  children'). — Well,  the 
little  darlings  are  tired  out  and  have  gone  sound  asleep. 
I  will  not  disturb  them.  {^Takes  her  work-basket  from  the 
table  and  goes  ouf] 

{Enter  three  little  girls  dressed  in  ivhiteto  represent  fairies, 
each  carrying  a  imnd  with  a  bright  ribbon  twisted  around  it. 
There  should  be  several  small  bells  sewed  on  the  ribbon  so  thai 
they  will  ring  when  the  wands  are  moved.) 

First  Fairy. — Shall  we  aid  these  children  ? 

Second  Fairy. — Did  they  not  wish  for  our  presence? 

Third  Fairy. — And  have  we  not  left  our  dance  on  the 
velvet  sward,  by  the  side  of  the  rippling  brook,  where  the 
iowers  were  nodding  and  bending  to  us,  to  come  to  this 
cold  land  ?     Ugh  I    I'm  shivering  now. 

First  Fairy. — Then  let  us  at  once  to  work.    \_Ooes  to  the 
'Children,  waves  her  wand  over  them  three  tim^,^ 
12 


A  CHRISTMAS    EVE   ADVENTURld  13J 

O  children  dear, 

In  your  dreams  so  bright, 
May  you  swiftly  speed, 

Through  the  frosty  night. 
To  the  palace  fair, 
That  is  built  in  air. 
Where  dwelleth  in  state, 
So  noble  and  great, 
The  good  Kris-Kingle, 
For  whom  our  merry  bells  jingle. 

{All  tinkle  their  bells.) 

/Second  Fairy  (waving  her  wand). — 
Tinkle,  tinkle,  merry  bells, 
By  flowery  meads  and  fairy  dells, 
Guide  these  children  on  their  way 
To  the  place  where  fairies  stay. 

Third  Fairy  {waving  her  xvand). — 

There  you  may  see  the  sly  old  elf, 
The  good  St.  Nicholas  himself. 
{All  tinkle  their  hells  and  say  in  concert,) 
Tinkle,  tinkle,  merry  bells. 
By  flowery  meads  and  fairy  dells. 
[Curtain.] 

Scene  III. 

ffome  of  Santa  Claus.  A  profusion  of  toys  scattered  abotA 
on  tables,  chairs,  and  floor.  Mrs  Santa  Clans,  ivith  cap 
and  spectacles  on,  dressing  a  large  doll.  A  timid  knock  at 
the  door. 

Mrs.  S.  C.  (looking  up). — Come  in. 
(Entfir  Nellie  and  Harry  dressed  same  as  last  scene.) 
Mrs.  S.  C.   Qin  great  surprise). — Why,  bless  my  heart  i 

Where  did  you  two  tots  come  from?     [^Kissing  each  of 


J34  A   CHRISTMAS   EVE  ADVENTURE. 

them.]  It  does  my  eyes  good  to  look  at  a  child  once  more. 
I  haven't  seen  one  since  Nick  and  I  moved  up  here.  But 
dear  me,  what  did  you  come  for  ? 

Harry. — Please  ma'am,  we  want  to  see  Santa  Claus. 

Mrs.  S.  C. — He  isn't  at  home  now,  but  he  soon  will  be. 
He  has  just  run  over  to  China.  But  sit  right  down.  IGiv- 
ing  each  a  chair.  TJie  children  gaze  in  admiration  at  the  t^ys 
scattered  about. 1 

Nellie. — Are  you  Mrs.  Santa  Claus  ? 

Mrs.  S.  C. — Yes,  I  am  Mrs.  Santa  Claus. 

Harry. — Why,  I  liever  knew  there  was  oue  before. 

Nellie  (scornfully'). — Who  did  you  s'pose  dressed  all  the 
dolls?     Do  you  think  Santa  Claus  can  sew? 

Mrs.  S.  Co  {nodding). — It  does  me  good  to  see  you.  But 
tell  me,  my  dears,  how  you  got  here  ? 

Harry. — The  fairies  brought  us. 

Nellie  (looking  intently  at  the  doll  Mrs.  S.  C.  is  dressing). 
•—Mrs.  Santa  Claus,  do  you  think  your  husband  is  going  to 
bring  that  doll  to  our  house  ? 

Mrs.  S.  C. — Now,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  was  intended 
for  a  little  girl  that  looks  like  you. 

Nellie  (clapping  her  hands). — O  my,  s'pose  it  is. 

(A  stamping  and  ringing  of  sleigh-hells  heard  oidside. 
Santa  Claus  rushes  in.  He  shoidd  be  stout,  with  a  long,  white 
heard.     A  large  basket  or  pack  strapped  on  his  back.) 

Santa  Claus  (sees  the  children  and  starts  back). — Dear  me! 
Bless  my  soul !     Where  did  you  come  from  ? 

Mrs.  S.  C. — They  came  to  see  you  on  important  busi- 
ness. 

Santa  Claus. — Ha!  ha!  ha!  What  business  can  two 
children  have  with  Santa  Claus  ? 

Harry. — Please,  Mr.  Santa  Claus,  we  were  afraid  you 
*ould  not  know  just  what  we  want  for  Christmas. 


A   CHRISTMAS   EVE   ADVENTURE.  135 

Nellie. — And  we  thought  it  would  be  uicer  to  come  and 
lell  you. 

Santa  Claus. — Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure;  ao  it  is,  so  it  is. 
[  Opening  a  large  account-book.']  Let  me  see — what  are  youi 
names  ?     [  Turning  the  pages  of  the  hook.'] 

Harri/. — Harry  and  Nellie  Bently,  sir. 

Santro  Claus. — -Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Now,  what  is  it  you 
want?     [Taking  a  pen  and  writing.] 

Nellie. — A  big  wax  doll  and — and  a  box  of  cream  choco- 
late candy. 

Santa  Clans. — Ahem !  Candy  is  a  bad  thing  for  little 
girls.     And  you,  sir?     \_Turning  to  Harry.] 

Harry. — A  pair  of  skates,  and  a  ball,  and  a  Chatterbox, 
and  a  new  sled,  and — 

Nellie. — If  you  please,  sir,  I'd  like  a  fairy  book,  and  a 
music-box. 

Santa  Claus. — Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,  you  shall  have  them. 
Is  that  all  ? 

Both  Children. — Yes,  sir. 

(Stamping  and  sleigh-hells  ringing  outside.} 

Santa  Claus  (turning  to  3Irs.  S.  C.  and  taking  the  baskei 
from  his  shoulders). — My  dear,  will  you  have  this  basket 
filled  with  dolls  by  the  time  I  come  back  ?  I  hear  the  rein- 
deer  prancing  and  pawing  out  there,  so  I  must  be  off.  I 
am  going  to  Norway,  and  can  drop  these  children  in  the 
United  States,  as  I  go  along. 

Mrs.  S.  C. — Well,  if  they  arc  going  with  you  they  must 
be  well  bundled  up,  for  it  will  not  be  a  fairy  barge,  such 
as  they  came  in. 

Santa  Claus. — Yes,  to  be  sure.  [He  tvraps  a  buffalo  robe 
sround  each.  Mrs.  Santa  Claus  kisses  them  and  says  good- 
bye. Santa  Claus  carries  them  out.  A  loud  ringing  oj 
hells  and  cracking  of  whips.] 

^Curtain.} 


136  A  CHRISTMAS   EVE   ADVENTURE. 

Scene  IV. 

The  room  hrlUiantly  lighted.  A  Christmas  tree  handsomely 
trimmed,  which  may  be  hidden  during  the  previous  part  oj 
the  entertainment  by  a  curtain.  Several  adults  and  children 
seated  in  the  room.  Each  child  should  have  one  or  more 
toys.  Nellie  and  Harry  in  the  foreground,  with  the  differ- 
ent articles  for  which  they  had  asked  Santa  Claus,  about 
tliem.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bently  standing  by  the  tree. 
Mr.  Bently. — Friends,  I  believe  the  presents  have  all 
been  distributed.     I  trust  no  one  has  been  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Bently  {taking  up  a  package). — Here  is  something 
you  have  overlooked. 

Mr.  Bently. — It  is  marked  for  Miss  Nellie  Bently. 
Nellie  {takes  it  and  opens  it). — Oli  !    A  box  of  cream 
chocolates.     [Excitedly.']     Now,  papa,  mamma,  don't  you 
believe  that  we  really  went  to  see  Santa  Claus  ?     For  we 
have  every  single  thing  we  asked  him  for. 

Mrs.  Bently. — I  thinTc  you  had  a  very  pleasant  dream, 
seated  in  the  big  rocking-chair. 

Harry. — Well,  we  did  gee  him,  and  Mrs.  Santa  Claus 
too,  didn't  we  Nellie? 

Nellie  {nodding  her  head  emphatically). — Yes,  we  did. 
Mr.  Bently. — Let  them  believe  in  it ;  such  a  harmless 
superstition  can  do  them  no  injury.  They  will  begin  to 
doubt  soon  enough.  I  believe  in  letting  children  be  chil- 
dren as  long  as  possible.  And  now  we  will  have  some 
music,  after  that  perhaps  we  may  have  some  visitors. 

{Music,  "Hark !  the  Herald  Angels  Sing,"  or  anything 
appropriate  to  Christmas.  During  this  piece  three  men  or 
large  boys  enter,  dressed  as  shepherds,  with  shepherds^  crooks. 
They  go  to  the  front,  and  when  the  music  ceases  tlmj  recite 
together,  or  each  may  recite  to  a  period : ) 


A  CHRISTMAS   EVE   ADVENTURE.  137 

"  When  Bethlehem's  plains  were  transfigured  with  light. 

And  the  shepherds  stood  gazing  below, 
They  saw  in  the  heavens  above  them  a  sight 

That  kindled  their  liearts  to  a  glow. 
On  the  edge  of  a  cloud  stood  the  Angel  of  God, 

With  legions  cherubic  attended, 
While  voices  unnumbered,  both  near  and  abroad, 

In  melodious  chorus  were  blended. 
'  I  bring,'  said  the  Angel,  on  wings  of  love  flying, 

'  Joy  !  joy  !  to  this  desolate  sod  ; 
In  Bethlehem's  manger  a  Saviour  is  lying 

Who  is  Christ,  the  Incarnate  of  God !' 
Then  the  cherubic  legions  praised  God  in  full  chorus. 
And  this  was  the  song  that  rang  out  on  the  air, 

(To  he  mng  by  the  entire  company:') 

Gloria  Deo  in  Excelsis, 

Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 

{The  shepherds  step  back,  and  a  young  lady  goes  to  front  q/ 
9iage  and  recites:) 

"  The  Arab  now  pitches  his  tent  on  the  plain 

Where  the  shepherds  heard  angels  once  sing, 
And  the  Mussulman's  war-steed  now  crunches  his  graia 

In  the  manger  that  cradled  our  King ! 
But  the  warm,  living  faith  and  the  heart's  pure  devotion 

The  angels  enkindled  in  bosoms  of  old. 
Have  swept  the  wide  world,  and  from  ocean  to  ocean. 

Till  millions  rejoice  when  the  story  is  told. 
And  the  Saviour  no  more  is  a  babe  in  the  manger. 

But  a  conquering  hero,  all  mighty  to  save. 
To  the  helpless  a  refuge,  a  friend  to  the  stranger, 

E'en  wielding  a  sceptre  o'er  death  and  the  grave. 


138  DOUBLE  PLAY. 

Let  us  take  up  t'he  song,  then,  and  join  tlie  grand  cborua, 
As  sung  to  the  shepherds  on  Bethlehem's  plains; 

The  same  Christ  is  ours,  the  same  heaven  o'er  us, 
And  angels  are  waiting  to  join  the  glad  strain. 

(To  he  sung  by  the  company:) 

Gloria  in  Excelsis, 
Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 
[Curtain.] 

Ella  H.  Clement. 


DOUBLE  PLAY. 


CHARACTERS. 


Mr.  Judson,  a  millionaire  from  Michigan,  very  delicate. 
Tom  Carmine,  a  young  artist  looking  for  a  model. 
Fritz  Oppelheimer,  a  German  who  has  had  experience. 
Mike  O'Leary,  an  Irish  grocery  store  clerk. 

Scene. — Parlor  in  Mrs.  Mulberry's  boarding  house.  Lounge 
at  right,  table  in  centre,  on  which  are  neivspapers.  One 
chair  at  right  and  two  at  left.  Mr.  Judson  discovered  lying 
on  lounge  asleep,  tvith  sJiawl  throivn  over  him.  Enter  Tom 
Cannine,  wearing  Tam  O'Shanter  cap,  Norfolk  ja/ihet, 
and  neglige  tie.      Contemplates  Mr.  Judson' s  sleeping  form. 

Tom. — What  on  earth  does  that  fellow  want  lying  about 
the  parlor  in  that  fashion,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  Why  don't 
he  go  to  his  room  and  sleep  ?  A  nice  idea,  that,  to  make  a 
chamber  out  of  the  drawing  room !  And  I  expect  visitors, 
too— any  number  of  them — in  answer  to  my  advertisement 
for  a  model.  Mrs.  Mulberry  objects  to  my  having  them 
tramp  over  her  new  stair  carpets  up  to  the  fourth  floor,  so 
I  have  to  receive  them  here  instead  of  in  my  sky-parlor 
studio.     What  a  jolly  model  this  old  fellow  would  make  J 


DOUBLE   PLAY.  139 

He's  got  just  tlie  cadaverous,  worn  expression  I  want,  but  oi 
course,  he  wouldn't  consent  to  sit.  Mrs.  Mulberry  tells  me 
he's  immensely  wealthy.  Don't  know  how  to  spend  his  in- 
come, and  is  looking  for  a  long-lost  nephew  with  whom  to 
3hare  it.  Of  course  he  wouldn't  sit.  I  wish  he'd  get  up  and 
go,  though.  Well,  when  the  consumptive  models  begin  to 
come  in  he  won't  stop  long ;  their  coughing  will  disturb  his 
slumbers.  IGoing  to  table  and  taking  up  a  paper,  reads:'] 
"  Wanted — A  thiu,  hollow-cheeked  man  as  a  model,  by  an 
artist,  who  is  about  to  paint  a  picture  of  'Tantalus  in  Hades.' 
Call  at  76  Boffin's  Bower,  between  eleven  and  twelve." 
There,  that's  my  advertisement.  Rather  neat,  I  think. 
As  I  view  it,  Tantalus  must  have  been  very  much  ema- 
ciated after  his  efforts  to  get  a  mouthful  of  water  had  con- 
tinued for  some  time,  and  so  I  shall  picture  him.  I  want 
as  a  model,  a  man  dying  of  consumption,  with  his  skin  drawn 
tightly  over  the  cheek-bones,  his  cheeks  two  deep  holes, 
his  eyes  sunken,  his  complexion  pale  and  sallow.  How  well 
that  sleeper  there  would  answer  my  purpose !  By  Jove ! 
I  think  I'll  make  a  sketch  of  his  face  as  he  sleeps.  Where's 
my  sketch-book?  [Feds  in  his  pockets.']  Up  stairs,  ol 
course.  Well,  it  won't  take  me  long  to  get  it.  lExii 
Tom,  L.] 

(vis  he  goes  out,  Mike  O'Leary  peeps  in  at  B.  Then  stepi 
cautiously  in  on  tiptoe.  ) 

31ike.—^Yh\st,  now !  And  phat's  this  I'm  doin'  ?  Sure, 
I  might  be  arristed  for  burgulary  and  clapped  into  a  dun- 
geon cell  fur  false  pretinses.  Mike  O'Leary,  me  boy,  you've 
no  right  here,  at  all  at  all,  and  it's  a  coward  yez  are  or  yez 
wouldn't  run  away  loike  that  from  a  purty  face  and  a  tidy 
waist — the  wan  wantin'  to  be  kissed  by  you  and  the  ither 
imbraced.  Bad  cess  to  the  gurl  wid  her  flattery  !  It  was 
at  the  back  gate  I  called  jist  now  to  take  Mrs.  Mulberry'g 


140  DOUBLE  PLAY. 

ordtliers  fur  the  corner  grocery,  whin  the  little  colleen  in 
vited  me  in,  and  "  It's  a  model  ye  are,"  sez  she.  "Go  way 
wid  yez !"  sez  I ;  "  it's  yerself  as  is  the  pink  of  perfection," 
Bez  I.  Wid  that  I  was  about  to  put  me  arrum  about  her, 
whin  she  pointed  to  this  door.  "  It's  a  Tantalus  yez  would 
be,"  sez  she.  '' Tantalizin'  ye?"  sez  I.  "  Niver  a  bit  of 
it,  but  a  thrue  admirer  of  your  rosy  cheeks  and  bright 
eyes,"  sez  I,  and  wid  that  I  was  about  to  kiss  her.  Then 
I  heard  futshtips  a  comiu'  and  I — well,  here  I  am,  and 
phat  I'm  here  fur  I  don't  know!  Sure,  the  ould  man's  a 
wakin'  up  there,  and  I'm  blissed  if  I  know  how  to  explain 
toe  prisence  here,  at  all  at  all. 

(J/r.  Judson  opens  his  eyes,  looks  about  sleepily,  catches 
nght  of  Mike,  and  sits  up  on  lounge.) 

Mr.  Judson. — Ah !  you  called  to  see  me,  I  suppose. 

Mike. — I  did,  sir !  [Aside.']  I  must  get  out  of  this  some 
way  or  other ;  and  sure,  since  I'm  here  I've  called  to  see 
him. 

Mr.  Judson. — I  hope  you  will  excuse  the  manner  of  my 
reception  of  you.  The  fact  is,  I  was  very  weary,  and  I 
fell  asleep  almost  before  I  knew  it.  Have  you  been  waiting 
long? 

Mike. — Not  very  long,  sir. 

Mr.  Judson. — And  you  came  in  answer  to  my  advertise^ 
ment,  I  suppose. 

Mike  {aside). — Phat  luck,  to  be  sure!  \_Aloud.'\  I  did 
that,  sir ;  yes,  sir.     In  answer  to  your  advertisement,  sir. 

Mr.  Judson. — Won't  you  sit  down  ? 

Mike  (seating  himself  on  chair  by  lounge). — Thank  ye, 
sir! 

Mr.  Judson. — I  may  as  well  explain  to  you  that  my  sis- 
ter came  east  from  Michigan  twenty  five  years  ago,  and 
here  married  a  poor  man.     Who  or  what  he  was  I  don't 


DOL'ISLi:   ri.AY.  141 

know.  I  never  heard  his  name.  She  and  my  father  had 
i,  quarrel,  and  after  her  departure  we  received  no  letter 
or  message  from  her.  A  mutual  friend  who  met  her  here 
years  afterward,  informed  us  she  was  married  and  had  a 
son.  That  son  1  now  want  to  find.  Therefore  I  adver- 
tised for  information  concerning  Margaret  Judson  or  her 
child.     What  do  you  know  of  either  of  them  ? 

Mike. — Niver  a  word,  sir  I 

(^E)iter  Tom  Carmine,  L.,  portfolio  in  hand.) 

Mr.  Judson. — But  I  thought  you  said  you  came  in 
answer  to  the  advertisement ;  and  yet  when  I  ask  you 
what  you  know,  you  can  tell  me  nothing. 

Tom  {interposing). — Pardon  me,  sir ;  but  it  is  probably 
■ay  advertisement  to  which  this  young  man  has  responded. 
I  advertised  for  a  model. 

Mike  (aside). — Shure  it's  thrue  the  fairies  are  good  to 
the  Irish.  \^Aloud.'\  That's  it,  sir;  I'm  a  model,  sir;  at 
least  I've  been  towld  so,  sir. 

Tom. — But  I  advertised  for  a  thin,  delicate  looking  man, 
Surely  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  answer  that  description! 

Mike. — Ah  sir,  it's  puffed  up  wid  pride  I  am,  sir,  to  be 
honored  by  the  likes  o'  you,  sir.  Oixlinarily,  sir,  I'm  that 
thin  that  ye  can't  see  me  wid  a  microschope  whin  I  stand 
sidewaj^s.  Faith,  whin  the  living  skiliton  was  too  sick  to 
appear  at  the  Dime  Museum,  I  tuck  his  place  as  a  substhi- 
tute,  and  I  was  that  thin,  sir,  that  siventeen  ladies  fell  in 
love  wid  me,  while  wan  hunthred  and  twinty  siven  bought 
me  fortygraph  the  first  day  I  was  on  exhibition. 
(Knock  at  door,  L.) 

Mr.  Judson  and  Tom  (in  chorus). — Come  in  I 
(Enter  Fritz  Oppelheimer.') 

Mr.  Judson. — You  wish  to  see  me  ? 

Tom. — You  have  called  in  answer  to^ 


142  DOUBLE   PLAY. 

Fritz. — ^Yalil  das  is  recht.    I  haf  galled  in  anzer  ti 

dot  nodis  by  de  baber. 

Mr.  Judson. — As  I  said,  you  wish  to  give  me  some  infop- 
mation  about  my  nephew — my  sister's  child — you  have — 

Mike. — It's  a  model  he  is,  to  be  sure.  Begorra,  we  are 
both  practisiu'  the  same  profession. 

Tom. — Did  you  wish  to  see  the  artist? 

Fritz. — Yah !  It  vhas  de  ardisd  I  to  see  vhas  vantin.  1 
haf  krade  sugcess  as  a  model.  I  haf  bosed  for  ardists  in 
Perlin,  Vienua,  Paris,  efferywhere.  For  tweudy  five  years 
I  have  bosed  here  in  dis  ciddy.  I  haf  efferyding  peen  I — 
varrior,  loffer,  Gubid,  efferyding  I 

Mike. — Cupid  is  it !  Faith,  a  foine  bouncin'  Cupid  wud 
you  make  I  Have  yez  iver  thried  Apollo  of  the  Velvet 
Ear? 

Tom. — Excuse  me,  sir ;  but  I  hope  you  won't  interfere 
with  this  gentleman. 

Fritz. — Sho !  I  mind  not  what  he  says.  He  was  Irish. 
He  vill  haf  his  leedle  choke.  May  I  imbose  a  story  ubon 
you  ?  Eh  I  Veil,  all  ride !  It  vas  shord.  Shall  ve  aid 
town? 

Tom. — Certainly.     [^Places  chair.    All  sit^ 

Mr.  Judson. — I  hope  my  presence  is  not  an  intrusion, 
Kir. 

Tom,. — O  not  at  all.  Take  a  chair  and  hear  our  friend— 
I  beg  pardon,  sir ;  your  name  is — 

Fritz. — Fritz  Oppelheimer.    [il/r.  Judson  takes  chair.'] 

Tom. — Well,  Fritz,  we're  listening. 

Fritz. — Yah,  das  in  recht.  Fifteen  years  ako  I  vas  haf 
toy  live  safed  by  von  Irish  shentleman.  Peesiness  vas 
fbrry  pad.  I  vas  ferry  boor.  I  say,  Fritz,  old  poy,  you're 
live  vas  no  goot.    You  pedder  vas  gone  died. 

UiJce. — Shure,  it  'ud  been  only  one  Dootchmon  the  lese^ 


DOUBLE    PLAY.  14S 

aod  that's  shraall  account!  l_Pick8  up  Tom^» portfolio  and 
txamines  it^ 

Fritz. — Town  py  de  tocks  I  vas  valkin",  ven  all  of  a 
suddin  1  dakes  a  notion  I  vill  end  myselluf.  De  nide  vas 
tark — so  tark  you  noddings  can  see  almost.  Yell !  I  make 
gvick  vork.  Sblash  I  iudo  de  vader  I  ko.  O  zo  gold  it 
vas  I  soon  vish  myselluf  oud  again.  I  sdruggle  aud 
edruggle,  but  no  koot  I  All  krows  tarker  und  tarker.  My 
bet  she  hums  und  hums  uud  hums.  Pride  lides  tauco 
pefore  mine  eyes ;  den  I  no  more  knows.  I  dinks  I  vas 
ded,  meppe ;  pud  no,  I  vas  all  ride  afder  all.  It  vas  an 
Irish  shentleman  vot  safed  me.  He  hert  my  sblash  and 
he  shumped  in  afder  me.  Veil,  I  neffer  forgod  dot  Irish- 
man for  dot.    It  vas  so  prave,  so  goot. 

Tom. — How  odd  I  Why,  do  you  know,  Fritz,  my  father 
was  an  Irish  gentleman,  aud  he  once  saved  the  life  of  a 
German  in  just  the  way  you  describe.  He  was  in  hard 
luck  at  the  time,  aud  was  employed  as  private  watchman 
down  along  the  wharves. 

Fritz. — Ish  dot  so  ?  My  resguer  vas  a  brivate  vatchmaa 
doo. 

Tom. — What  was  his  name  ? 

Fritz. — Dom  Garmine. 

Tom. — Then  it  was  my  father,  Tom  Carmine;  1  a^B 
named  for  him. 

Fritz  (in  amazement). — Ish  dot  sol  And  you  vas  bis 
don.  Veil  I  vas  zo  klat  to  meed  you.  I  rememper  you 
Ten  you  vas  so  high.  And  vere  is  your  fader  now? 
\Shake  hands^ 

Tom. — Dead  and  gone,  Fritz. 

Fritz. — Und  your  mudder?  O  she  vas  sooch  a  nice 
laty.     She  koom  from  de  Vest,  eh  ? 

/W. — Yes.    She  came  from  Michigan.    She  too  la  dead 


DOUBLE  PL^Y. 

Mr.  Judson. — She  came  from  Michigan,  did  you  say? 

Tom. — 1  did,  yes  sir.     Did  you  know  her  ? 

Mr.  Judson. — What  was  her  name? 

Tom. — Carmine,  sir,  Mrs.  Carmine ! 

Mr.  Judson. — Yes,  but  her  maiden  name  ?  \_ExGitedly.'*^ 
What  was  her  name  before  she  was  married  ? 

Tom. — Her  name  was  Judson,  sir!     Margaret  Judson. 

Mr.  Judson  (still  more  excitedly). — You  dou't  mean  it? 
You're  jokiug  I  Surely,  you  are  not  the  son  of  Margaret 
Judson  ? 

(Mike  draws  paper  with  seal  upon  it  from  portfolio  oj 
sketches  which  he  is  still  looking  over,  unfolds  it,  and  reads  at- 
tentively.) 

Tom. — I'm  no  one  else,  sir.  But  why  do  you  wish  to 
know  ?    Was  she  a  friend  of  yours,  sir  ? 

Mr.  Judson. — She  was  my  sister,  sir ;  and  if  you  are  her 
Bon,  you  must  be  my  nephew ;  and  if  you  are  my  nephew, 
you  are — 

Tom. — Heir  to  your  fortune,  eh,  uncle?  Well,  Uncle 
Judson,  look  no  further.  The  long  lost  is  found.  [_Aside.'\ 
The  very  idea !  Why,  I  hadu't  the  slightest  notion  that  this 
gentleman  was  my  mother's  brother. 

Mr.  Judson. — Yes,  yes,  my  boy.  But  where  are  your 
proofs  that  you  are  my  nephew?  Your  mere  statement 
goes  for  very  little,  you  know.     Any  one  could  say  that. 

Mike. — Sure,  here  are  his  proofs,  sir.  Phat  more  do  yez 
want  thin  a  marridge  certificate,  and  here  it  is.  [Pro- 
ducing paper  with  seal.    Mr.  Judson  takes  it  eagerly  and 

Tom. — Yes  sir ;  there  you  have  it. 

Mr.  Judson. — Well,  this  certainly  seems  all  right.  How 
Htrange  that  I  should  find  the  very  boy  I  advertised  for 
-ight  here  under  the  same  roof  with  mel     j^Grasps  Tom'i 


DOUBLE   PLAT.  145 

Umd  heartily.']    And  so  you're  Margaret's  son  ?    Well,  my 
Ud,  I'm  proud  of  you  I 

Tom. — Thank  you,  uncle.  I'm  sure  I'm  proud  to  be 
your  nephew.  And  wasn't  it  strange  that  I  should  find  ia 
fou,  just  what  I  want  for  a  model  for  my  picture  of  Tan« 
talus? 

Mr.  Judson. — What?    Do  you  want  to  paint  me? 

Tom. — Well,  no ;  not  now,  under  the  circumstances,  I 
guess  not.  But  I  did  think  your  face  would  do.  To  tell 
the  truth,  I've  rather  decided  to  make  Tantalus  a  fat  man 
instead  of  a  thin  one,  and  I  shall  engage  Fritz  here  for  the 
part. 

Fritz. — Yah  I  das  is  recht. 

Milce. — And  phat  will  ye  engage  me  fur?  Sure,  it  was 
t  who  established  your  claim  to  the  title. 

Tom. — If  I  am  not  mistaken,  your  name  is  Mike  O'Leary, 
my  man,  and  your  place  is  behind  the  counter  at  the  cor- 
ner grocery.  What  you  are  doing  in  Mrs.  Mulberry's  par- 
lor I  don't  exactly  know,  but  if  you  value  your — 

Mike. — All  right,  sir;  I'm  going,  sir.  l_Aside.']  Sure,  1 
was  afraid  I'd  be  arristed  for  burgulary  or  highway  rob- 
^ry  or  something  of  that  sort. 

Tom. — And  should  you  meet  any  people  coming  in  an 
Bwer  to  one  or  both  of  the  advertisements,  as  you  appeal 
to  have  done,  you  can  tell  them  that  their  services  are  not 
•Dquired.     We  have  had  a  double  play. 

Mike.^-^Tha.t  I  will,  sir.     [Exit  hurriedly.'] 

[Curtain.] 

Charles  Stokiss  Watii& 


S46  THE   GHOST   OF   CROOKED    LANE. 


THE  GHOST  OF  CROOKED  LANE. 

CHARACTERS. 

Dr.  Dudley  Graball,  old  and  eccentric. 

Ned  Hamestbap,  in  love  with  Mattie. 

Sammy  Smoothway,  a  dandy,  also  in  love  with  Mattie. 

Mattie  Graball,  the  Doctor's  lovely  daughter. 

Aunt  Charity,  housekeeper,  cross  and  nervous. 

Scene. — A  library.  Table  and  chairs  in  centre.  Writing 
material,  a  large  wooden  lancet,  and  pair  of  tongs  on  table. 
Lounge  near  left  entrance.  Flour  barrel  painted  black, 
with  the  word  leeches  on  it  in  white  letters,  standing  near 
right  entrance;  barrel  to  contain  two  leeches  three  feel 
long,  made  of  brown  muslin  and  painted  to  imitate.  Win- 
dow practical,  with  white  curtain,  at  rear  of  table.  Door 
practical,  at  rear  of  table.  Time,  evening.  Doctor  dis- 
covered at  table  reading  book. 

Doctor  (rises). — This  is  a  very  valuable  book  on  the  appli- 
cation of  the  leech,  but  it  is  too  dark  to  pursue  the  subject 
further.  I  want  more  light.  \_Lays  book  on  table,  goes  to 
L.  E.  and  calls.~]  Charity  !  [^Aside.']  What  a  stupid,  idle, 
negligent,  worthless  old  woman  that  is  !  [Aloud.']  Charity ! 
I  say  !    I  say !    I  say — !    Char-i-ty ! 

Charity  {from  without). — Well,  what  is  it  now?  A 
tireder  woman,  nor  a  wuss  treated  creetur'  don't  live  on 
this  earth.  \_Enter  L.  E."]  What  is  it  now,  you  impatient 
mortal?    What  is  it? 

Doctor. — Bring  me  a  light ;  do  you  hear  ?  A  light ;  I 
want  a  light.  Don't  stand  there  like  an  oil  derrick,  but 
go! 

Charity. — Oh,  you  can  of  dynamite !  You  broke  my 
poor  sister's  heart,  and  sent  her  headlong  to  an  eafly 
grave — 


THE   GHOST   OF   CROOKED   LANE.  14T 

Doctor. — Be  off,  or  I'll  send  you  headlong.  Be  off,  1 
say— 

Charity. — Ugh !  you  wretched  mau. 
[Exit  L.  E.'\ 

Doctor  (resumes  seat  at  table). — Was  ever  a  man  afflicted 
with  such  a  female  snapping  turtle  ?  If  I  did  not  know 
that  she  dotes  on  Mattie  I  would  get  a  new  housekeeper  in 
the  morning.  By  the  way,  that  reminds  me  that  it  is  time 
Mattie  is  home  from  singing  school. 

Charity  (re-enters  with  lighted  candle,  which  she  sets  on 
table). — There  !  I  wish  you'd  teach  your  daughter  to  keep 
better  hours ;  it's  dark  in  the  lane,  and  supper's  been 
ready  more  than  an  hour.  You  know  for  two  weeks  past 
there's  been  queer  stories  told  about  somethin'  awful 
prowlin'  in  the  lane.  I  believe  it's  Nat  Tompkins'  sperrit— 
the  fellow  you  bled  in  the  arm  the  night  he  died.  They 
say  he  buried  his  money  in  the — 

Doctor. — Stop  right  there !  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate 
that  because  I  bled  him  in  the  arm — 

(Enter  Mattie,  screaming  ;   door  to  remain  open.) 

Charity. — Horror  !  Horror ! 

Doctor. — Keep  off!  Keep  off!  {^Picks  up  lancet  and 
flourishes  it.^ 

Mattie. — Save  me !  save  me !  lRu7is  to  lounge  and  hides 
face.^ 

Doctor  (goes  to  lounge). — Mattie,  my  child,  what's  the 
trouble  ?    Tell  your  poor  old  father. 

Mattie. — I  saw  it  in  the  lane.  It  chased  me  from  the 
spring  house  to  the  door.    Oh !  oh !  oh  ! 

(  Charity  screams  and  kneels  beside  Mattie.) 

Doctor.— Ha!  Where  is  it?  Show  it  to  me!  [To 
Charity.']  Go  shut  the  door ;  do  you  hear  ?  Go,  the  draught 
is  too  strong. 


145  THE   GHOST   OP   CROOKED    LANE. 

Charity  (rising). — Go  yourself;  I'm  afeared. 

Mattie  {looking  u]}). — Dou't  you  go  near  the  door,  fathei 
I  am  sure  it's  waiting  outside. 

Doctor. — I'm  afraid  of  nothing,  [^Adva7ici7ig  toward 
door.l  Show  yourself,  if  you  dare !  I  dou't  know  ih€ 
meaning  of  the  word  fear.     [Stands  in  front  of  open  door.} 

Mattie. — Father  !    father ! 

Charity. — Dudley  Graball,  you're  a  temptiu'  fate ! 

Doctor  (turns,  facing  Mattie  and  Charity,  with  back  te 
door). — I'm  ashamed  of  you. 

(Ghost  appears,  enveloped  in  a  sheet;  remains  standing 
in  d.oonuay.') 

(^Mattie  and  Charity  scream  and  point  at  door.) 

Doctor  (flourishes  lancet). — Come,  come ;  if  twenty  spectres 
appeared,  I'd,  I'd — \_Tu7iis  to  door.^  Oh!  Mur-dahl 
[_Drops  lancet,  falls  on  floor,  and  shouts.^    Take  it  away  I 

take  it  away ! 

(Ghost  vanishes.) 

Charity. — Oh,  oh !  I'm  trimblin'  from  head  to  foot. 
Mattie,  dear,  it's  gone. 

Mattie. — Yes,  it  has  disappeared ;  I  never  had  such  a 
shock  in  my  life.     [Mattie  closes  the  door.'\ 

Charity. — Oh,  child,  be  careful ! 

Mattie  (shakes  Doctor). — Get  up,  father;  it  has  gone,  and 
the  door  is  shut. 

Doctor  (rises  and  looks  about  cautiously,  picks  up  lancet 
and  examines  it). — This  lancet  bears  no  stain  of  blood,  yet 
I  ran  it  through  him  four  times,  and  then  I  slipped  down. 
Gone  ?    Yes,  I  guess  it  has  gone. 

Charity. — Come,  supper's  waitin' ;  a  cup  o'  tea'll  con> 
pose  your  nerves. 

Doctor. — Yes,  we'll  go  to  supper.  Come,  Mattie,  love, 
Soroe  and  refresh  yourself.    Ham,  hominy,  and  potatoes  are 


THE  GHOST  OF  CROOKED  LANE.         1-19 

good  antidotes.  A  full  stomach  is  a  surety  against  ghosts. 
(Jome,  pet. 

Mattie. — Thanks,  father,  but  we  had  a  lunch  at  singing 
school,  and  I  am  not  a  bit  hungry.  I'll  sit  here  while  you 
and  Aunt  Charity  go  down. 

Charity. — Poor  child;  just  like  her  mother;  no  appe« 
tite. 

Doctor. — Well,  let  us  go.  Don't  stand  there  winking  at 
the  ceiling.  You're  the  most  timid  old  maid  I  ever  saw.  I 
Ray,  come ! 

{E.vit  Doctor  and  Charity,  L.  E.    Light  knock  at  door.) 

Mattie  {goes  to  door). — Who's  there? 

Hamestrap. — 'Tis  I ;  let  me  in,  Mattie. 

Mattie  {opens  door). — Ned  Hamestrap,  as  I  live !  Foi 
the  love  of  goodness  don't  make  a  noise !  They  have  just 
gone  to  supper. 

Hamestrap  {enters). — For  the  love  of  you  I'd  do  any- 
thing. 

Mattie  {closes  door). — Let  us  sit  on  the  lounge ;  we  can 
better  hear  them  there.  I  am  glad  you  have  come,  but  I 
fear  the  case  is  hopeless.  You  know  father  will  not  allow 
me  to  have  any  company  at  all ;  you  have  been  sent  off 
five  times  already. 

Hamestrap. — I  can  but  try.  I  will  pat  the  question  to 
the  Doctor  this  very  night.    I  must  know  the  worst. 

Mattie. — It  is  so  strange  that  fa'.:her  forbids  all  young 
men  the  house. 

Hamestrap. — Wretchedly  absurd,  my  dear  gir?  Horri- 
bly shabby  and  unwise. 

Mattie. — Hark  I    I  hear  my  parent's  voice ! 

Hamestrap  (jumping  up). — I'd  better  go. 

Doctor  {calls). — Mattie  1 

Jfattie.--Sir? 


150  THE   GHOST   OF   CROOKED   LANE. 

Doctor. — Who  are  you  talking  to  ? 

Maille. — Why,  father,  dear,  n-n-n-never  mind.  [  To  Ham& 
Urap.'\    Be  still  as  a  mouse. 

Doctor. — There  must  be  another  spirit  up  there.  Don't 
be  afraid,  I'm  coming. 

(Hamestrap  runs  to  door.) 

Matde. — There's  no  necessity,  I'm  not  a  bit  scared.  Don't 
come. 

Doctor. — Duty  calls  me ;  I  must. 

Hamestrap  {aside). — It  calls  me,  too.  [-^fowc?.]  The 
door's  locked !    Quick,  Mattie,  uufasten  it  or  I  am  caught  I 

Matt'ie. — Pull  hard,  it  only  sticks. 

Doctor. — What's  that?    Another  ghost ?    Mur-dah  ! 

{Mattie  screams.  Doctor  enters  running.  Hamestrap  tries 
to  open  door.) 

Doctor. — What  are  you  doiug  here,  sir  ? 

Mattie. — He's  trying  to  keep  the  ghost  out. 

Hamestrap. — I  came  just  in  time. 

Doctor. — You  did,  eh  ?  Well,  I'm  obliged  to  you ;  but, 
as  I  have  ordered  you  out  before,  it  is  only  necessary  for  me 
to  say,  go !     Go,  I  say  !     [  Chases  Hamestrap  around  room."] 

Hamestrap  (running). — One  moment.     I  beg  to  remain. 

{Enter  Charity,  ivho  follows  and  strikes  Hamestrap  with 
broom.) 

Doctor. — Not  a  Avord.     My  daughter  is  too  young. 

Mattie. — Spare  him  !    Spare  him ! 

Doctor. — Away !  out !    It's  my  cash  you  are  after  I 
{Hamestrap  opens  door  and  exits.) 

Mattie. — That  is  the  most  cruel  thing  you  ever  did.  I 
*ever  thought  you  would  be  so  hard  hearted  as  to  drive  a 
poor,  innocent  young  man  out  into  the  very  arms  of  a  hob- 
goblin. You  know  the  whole  village  is  wild  over  this 
^ange  apparition. 


THE   GHOST   OF   CROOKED   LANE.  151 

Doctor. — So  am  I,  but  I  prefer  spectres  to  speculatora. 
{Loud  knock  at  door.} 

All  (siaH').— Oh  1 

Mattie. — Be  cautious. 

Doctor. — I  will  see  who's  there. 

(Jjoud  double  knock  and  groan.  Mattie  and  Charity 
Beream.) 

Charity  (takes  position  near  door  with  broom  raised). — 
I'm.  ready,  Dudley. 

Doctor  (runs  to  table,  takes  up  lancet). — Open  the  door, 
Charity. 

Charity. — Who  are  you  ? 

Sammy. — It's  me,  Samuel  Smoo-moo-moo-moothway.  1 
want  to  see  the  Doctor.     M-m-my  jaw's  breaking. 

Mattie. — Sammy's  voice,  I  know  it  well.     Let  him  in. 

Charity  (opening  door). — Come  in. 

(Enter  Sammy,  ivith  head  wrapped  in  large  scarf.) 

Sa7)imy. — Oh — ! 

Charity  (strikes  him  with  broom). — I  thought  you  were 
the  spook. 

Sammy. — D-d-d-d-don 't  do  that  again.  I  am  sufTering 
with  a  toothache  in  my  neck. 

Mattie. — Poor  fellow.     Come  take  a  seat  on  the  lounge. 

Sammy  (sits  on  lounge). — Thanks  I  lAside."]  Oh,  the 
lovely  rosebud !  The  touch  of  that  hand  would  scatter  the 
too-too-toothache,  even  if  I  had  it.  lEemoves  scarf  from 
head.']    It's  much  better  now. 

Doctor  (advances  to  Sammy  with  tongs). — I  think  we  had 
better  remove  the  tooth ;  take  away  the  cause  and  the  ef- 
fect's nowhere. 

Sammy. — N-n-n-no  you  don't.  It's  the  neuralgia.  It  il 
in  my  neck. 

Doctor. — Let  me  examine  it. 


152  THE   GHOST   OP   CROOKED   LANE. 

Sammy. — Keep  them  nippers  away.  [Aside.']  All  thii 
to  gain  the  aflection  of  a  girl,  and  she  scarcely  looks  at  me. 
It's  t-t-t-too  bad. 

Doctor. — I  see  what's  the  matter ;  congestion.  I'll  relieve 
the  pain  in  three  minutes.  Just  let  these  ladies  steady  your 
head. 

Matiie. — Shall  I  support  your  head,  sir? 

Charity. — Of  course;  take  hold  of  the  young  man's 
feet. 

Doctor  {goes  to  barrel  and  takes  out  two  leeches). — Hold 
him  tight. 

Sammy  (raises  head  and  sees  leeches). — Murder  I  Take 
those  snakes  away  I  [fie  struggles.}  Help  I  help  1  W-w-w- 
watch ! 

(Door  opens.  Ghost  appears,  groans,  and  vanishes.  All 
look  toward  door.     Sammy  jumps  up  and  rushes  out.) 

Doctor. — He's  a  brave  man. 

Mattie  (closes  door). — Aunt  Charity,  we  had  better  go  to 
the  dining  room. 

Doctor. — Yes ;  get  a  cup  of  tea,  Mattie.  [Exit  Mattie 
and  Charity.']  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  ?  I  wish 
I  had  a  boy.  [Sits  near  table  with  back  toward  door.]  I  ara 
getting  old.  I  cannot  stand  this  ghost  business  any  longer. 
[Takes  up  book.]  Well,  I'll  try  and  resume  my  studiea 
Let  me  see,  where  did  I  leave  off?  Oh,  yes :  "  When  the 
leech  takes  hold  " — yes,  that's  it.    [Reads.] 

(  Ghost  opens  door  and  advances  slowly.  Touches  Doctor 
on  shoulder.) 

Doctor  (looks  up  and  falls  on  knees). — Oh  I  oh,  Mercy  I 

Ghost  (in  sepulchral  tone). — Sit  in  that  chair. 

Doctor  (rises  and  sits  down). — Oh,  good  Mr.  Ghost  I  spar© 
ue. 

GAoffi.— Silence  I 


THE   GHOST   OF   CROOKED    LANE.  153 

Doctor. — Keep  away,  and  I  will  give  you  all  I  possess. 

Ghost. — I  have  but  a  single  favor  to  ask  ;  grant  it,  anO 
peace  shall  be  yours,  peace  shall  be  mine. 

Doctor. — I  promise.    Name  it. 

Ghost. — That  you  permit  your  daughter  to  marry  Ned 
Hamestrap. 

Sammy  (looks  in  at  wimioiv). — Aha  I    [JXaappearsJ] 

Doctor. — Suppose  she  won't  ? 

Ghost.-^he  will. 

Doctor. — I  pi'omise. 

Ghost  (retiring  slowly'). — Farewell ! 
(Exit.) 
(Enter  Mattie  and  Charity^ 

Mattie. — Were  you  calling  us,  father? 

(Doctor  trembles  and  points  to  door.     Knock  at  door.) 

Mattie. — I'm  not  afraid.    [^Opcns  door-J 
(Enter  Hamestrap.) 

Doctor. — I  am  so  glad  to  see  you. 

Hamestrap. — And  I  am  more  than  delighted  to  see  you 
all.  \^Asi4e.'\  Now's  the  time.  \_Aloud.'\  Doctor,  I  am  a 
man  of  few  words.  I  love  Mattie,  and  Mattie  loves  me ; 
have  we  your  permission  to  wed  ? 

Doctor. — Mattie  must  answer  for  herself. 

Mattie. — Oh,  father! 

Doctor.— Come  now,  Mattie  dear;  what  shall  I  tell 
him  ? 

Mattie. — Why,  y-e-s — I 

(Hamestrap  attempts  to  embrace  Mattie^ 

Doctor. — Hold  on !  \^Places  his  arm  Oetween  them."]  1 
have  overlooked  a  matter.  A  horrid  ghost  has  teen 
here — 

Hamestrap. — A  ghost? 

Vodor. — And  until  I  have  proof  that  it  will 


154         THE  GHOST  OF  CROOKKD  LANE. 

Hamestrap. — I  know  what  you  want.  Now  tliat  I  am  to 
be  a  member  of  the  family,  I'll  seek  out  the  ghost  aud 
send  him  in  to  apologize.     \_Exit.^ 

All. — No,  no  !     \_They  move  toivard  L.  E.'\ 

{Enter  Ghost,  groaning.  Charity  brandishes  broom. 
Doctor  brandishes  lancet.    All  greatly  alarmed.) 

Hamestrap  (throws  off  sheet). — It  is  I ! 

Doctor. — You  rascal ! 

Mattie  (taking  Hamestrap' s  hand). — Forgive  us,  father. 
It  was  only  a  trick  of  love. 

Hamestrap. — Where  hearts  were  trumps.  [Stands  with 
back  to  cZoor.]    The  ghost  has  gone  forever ! 

(Enter  Sarmny,  with  sheet  held  before  him.  He  advances 
softly  behind  Hamestrap.) 

(All  except  Hamestrap  point  and  scream.) 

Hamestrap. — How  foolish !  It  is  only  the  sheet  tnat  1 
threw  off.     Besides,  I  am  here. 

Charity. — Only  look  !     Oh,  look ! 

Hamestrap  (turns  slowly). — Fire  !  Fire  I  Take  him  off! 
\_Runs  behind  Doctor.'] 

Sammy. — Enough  !  I  have  paid  him  back.  Now  I  will 
be  his  groomsman. 

(All  laugh,  and  take  positions.  Charity,  Mattie,  Doctor, 
Ned,  Sammy. 

Doctor  (taking  Mattie  and  Hamestrap  by  the  hand). — • 
And  thus  departs  the  ghost  of  Crooked  Lane  ! 
[Curtain.] 

George  M.  Vickers. 


GOING   TO   I'llE   DENTIST'8.  158 

GOING  TO   THE  DENTIST'S. 

CIIAEACTEKS. 

JAUSS  Gbbeg,  a  boy  of  sixteen.  Eli  Greeg,  a  bey  of  fuuiteeo. 

Dentist. 

Scene  I. 
fn  a  small  hoarding  school  study,  furnished  with  a  couple  of 
chai<'-s,  a  sviall  table  of  books,  ordinary  lamp,  etc.  Jarne* 
sitting  in  the  arm  chair,  his  face  tied  tip  with  a  large 
handkerchief.  Eli  occupying  the  other  chair  beside  the 
table,  figuring  on  his  slate. 

James  {groaning  and  jndting  hi^  hand  to  his  face). — It 
aches  awfully,  and  what  a  fellow's  to  do  without  a  mother 
to  doctor  him  up,  I  don't  know.  [Sobbing.']  This  being 
away  from  home  ain't  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be. 

Eli  (kindly). — There,  don't  take  on  so,  brother.  It'll 
stop  after  a  bit.  I  wouldn't  make  such  a  fuss  about  a 
iooth. 

James  (moaning'). — Yes,  you  would,  too.  I  remember 
about  your  six  year  molars.  You  kept  the  whole  house 
awake  two  nights  when  one  ached,  and  had  lots  of  poulr 
tices  on  and  people  to  sympathize  with  you. 

Eli  —Well,  I  got  it  out.    That's  the  thing  to  do. 

James. — O  it  pains  dreadfully!  Can't  you  get  me  « 
poultice,  or  something  to  stop  it  ?  Oh — h-oh  !  [Pressing 
both  hands  to  his  face  and  walking  around.'] 

Eli  {'putting  his  arm  affectionately  about  James). — Poor 
fellow,  never  mind. 

James  {moaning). — Huggin's  good  enough,  Eli,  but  it 
won't  cure  toothache.  Get  me  a  poultice,  laudanum,  or 
something,  quick  !    ugh  !  oh  ! 

£/i. — I'll  go  to  the  kitchen  and  hunt  you  a  poultice 


156 


GOING   TO   THE   DENTIRT'8. 


quicker  than  you  can  say  Jack  Robiusou.  Hold  od,  old 
fellow  !    \_R  mining  ouf] 

James  {throwing  libmelf  into  the  arm  clmir  and  holding 
his  jaw  with  his  hand). — I  s'pose  nobody  ever  dies  with 
toothache,  but  I'd  enough  rather,  than  live  with  it.  IFuts 
his  hand  tightly  over  his  mouth,  and  closes  his  eyes  a  moment, 
moans  in  a  muffied  tone.']  Ugh !  ugh !  Oh !  oh  !  Eli  stays 
an  awful  while  after  that  poultice.  Ugh !  ugh !  [Jii  a 
rather  louder,  hut  still  smothered  voice.']  Eli!  Eli !  \_IIolds 
his  mouth  shut  and  closes  his  eyes  again,  moaning.] 

{Enter  Eli  with  a  large,  dark,  pepper  colored  plaster  on  a 
white  cloth.) 

Eli  {aside). — This  ain't  like  mothw  makes,  but  I  guess 
it'll  do.     Hello,  James,  tooth  any  better  ? 

James  {moaning). — No.  Getting  worse  all  the  time. 
Give  me  your  poultice,  quick  !    Ugh ! 

{Eli  and  James  together  adjust  the  poultice  on  the  latter's 
cheek.) 

Eli. — There,  now  that's  like  mother  put  it  on,  if  it  ain't 
the  same  dose.    ISrieezmg.] 

James  {sneezing  three  or  four  times). — Pepper,  pepper ! 
ugh  !  pepper  !    \_Sneezing  several  times.] 

Eli. — The  nurse  said  pep[)er  plaster  was  the  very  thing. 
I  guess  it's  too  strong.     Jerk  it  off. 

{James  sneezes  vigorously  for  a  few  moments  while  jerk- 
ing it  off.) 

Eh. — Poor  soul.  The  cure's  worse  than  the  disease. 
Let's  have  the  tooth  out. 

James. — All  right,  or  I'll  be  killed  with  doctoring. 
[Sneezing.] 

Eli. — AH  right!  You  get  it  out  and  I'll  pay  for  it. 
That's  fair. 

James  {sneezing  and  moaning,  puts  a  hat  on  his  head  that 


! 


GOING   TO   THE    DENTIST'S.  157 

fits  illy  on  account  of  the  liandkerchief  still  around  his  liead), 
- — Come  on  to  the  dentist's. 

Eli. — You're  a  sorry  object  to  go  on  the  street.  Some 
of  that  plaster's  on  your  face  yet. 

James  (sneezing). — Who  cares  for  looks  ?     Come  on. 
(Exit.) 

Eli  (taking  up  his  hat  and  preparing  to  follow.  Aside  to 
the  audience). — I  expect  he'll  be  afraid  to  have  it  out. 
[Exit.] 

[Curtain   falls.] 

Scene  II. 

A  dental  room.     Dentist  standing  beside  a  window,  near  the 
dental  chair,  cvamining  and  rubbing  tip  his  instruments. 

Dentist. — These  hard  times  have  a  bad  effect  on  my 
trade.  Only  had  four  patients  yesterday,  aud  two  of  those 
went  on  the  books.  Rather  a  bad  lookout  for  a  man  with 
a  large  family  to  support.  \_Bcll  rings.']  Halloa!  There's 
somebody  now. 

(Enter  Eli  and  James  as  they  appeared  at  the  close  ojfortner 
scene,  James  still  holding  his  face.     Eli  bows,  hat  in  hand.) 

Dentist. — Good  morning,  gentlemen,  good  morning.  Love- 
ly day. 

Eli. — Good  morning.     Yes  sir,  quite  pleasant. 

Dentist. — Be  seated.  [  Waving  his  hand  in  the  direction 
of  vacant  chairs.  To  James.]  Some  trouble  with  the  teeth, 
young  man  ? 

James  (in  a  muffled  tone,  owing  to  the  handkerchief  over 
his  mouth). — Got  the  toothache.     \_Sneezing.'] 

Dentist. — We'll  soon  fix  that  matter.  Undo  your  face  and 
take  this  chair  a  moment.     \^Indicating  the  dental  chair.] 

James  (removing  the  handkerchief  slowly). — Had  a  pepper 
13 


158  GOING   TO   THE   DENTIST'S. 

[sneezing']  plaster  on,  and  it  makes  me  [sneezing']  sneez* 
[Sneezing.] 

Dentist. — Bad  things,  those  pepper  plasters.  Better  have 
a  tooth  out  at  once  or  filled,  when  it  makes  trouble. 

James  {dolefully). — But  it'll  hurt. 

Dentist  (blcmclly). — Oh,  not  much. 

James  (standing  on  one  leg  and  then  the  other). — Don't 
ache  much  now  [sneezing],  but  I  may's  well  let  you  look  at 
it,  I  reckon.     [Advancing  slotvly  toivard  the  dental  chair.] 

Dentist  (invitingly). — Just  step  up  and  take  a  seat.  The 
light's  good  here. 

James  (with  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  turning  to  Eli). 
— Would  you  believe  it,  Eli,  the  thing's  stopped  aching  ? 

Mi. — Glad  of  it.     Won't  hurt  so  much  to  get  it  jerked. 

James  (sneezing). — Don't  know  [sneezing]  as  I'll  have  it 
out  now. 

Dentist. — Sit  down  and  let  me  take  a  look,  at  any  rate, 
that  we  may  decide  the  case. 

(James  occupies  the  dental  chair  reluctantly.") 

Dentist. — Lay  your  head  back.  [Adjusting  the  head  with 
his  ha7id.]     Open  your  mouth. 

James  (timidly). — Come  here,  Eli,  and  show  him   the 
tooth.    I  don't  want  him  to  see  the  wrong  one.    [Sneezes.] 
(Eli  approaches  the  chair.) 

Dentist. — Open  your  mouth.  I  want  to  see  them  all. 
[Putting  his  hand  on  James'  chin  to  assist  the  mouth  in 
opening.] 

(James,  with  his  head  back,  opens  his  mouth.) 

Dentist  (looking  at  the  teeth). — Your  teeth  are  in  a  bad 
condition.  Two  or  three  need  to  come  out.  [Reaching for 
an  instrument  with  which  to  examine  them  more  closely.] 

Eli. — It's  a  lower  one  on  the  right  side  aches.  [PoinU 
mg  to  U.^ 


GOING   TO   THE   DENTIST's.  159 

{James  groans,  shuts  his  mouth,  sneezes.) 

Dentist. — But  those  decayed  molars  should  be  drawn. 
Let  rue  iuspect  them  more  fully. 

James. — What's  that  thiug  you've  got?  I  ain't  ready 
for  you  to  pull  yet. 

Dentist  {displaying  a  small  pointed  instrument). — Simply 
A  small  instrument  with  which  to  examine  the  condition  of 
the  teeth. 

James  (groaning). — You  won't  pull  ? 

Dentist. — No.    Open  your  mouth  ! 

James  {lays  back  his  head,  sneezing  and  coughing). — It 
makes  me  sneeze,  I  tell  you,  to  open  my  mouth !  And 
mother  won't  like  it.    Give  me  a  drink ! 

Dentist  {reaching  for  a  tumbler,  ivhich  sits  on  the  table,  and 
finds  it  empty). — Just  hold  easy  a  moment  and  I'll  bring  you 
water.     \_Exit  Dentist,  tumbler  in  hand.^ 

James  {groans). — Raise  that  window,  Eli,  to  make  more 
ftir — quick ! 

Eli  {raises  the  sash). — Don't  get  so  excited,  old  fellow. 
{James  springs  to  the  ivindow  and  jumjjs  out.) 

Eli  {looking  out). — Zounds!     Did  you  break  your  neck? 

James  {ccdling  from  without). — I'm  right  side  up  with 
care.  You  drink  the  water  and  give  my  compliments  to 
the  dentist. 

Eli  {looking  provoked  and  puzzled). — Such  a  baby,  to 
run  for  fear  he'd  get  hurt !  \_Scratching  his  head.']  How'll 
I  manage  the  dentist?  Like  enough,  he'll  want  me  to  turn 
patient.  Good-bye.  [iZe  swings  himself  into  the  windovs 
and  disappears  just  as  the  Dentist  enters.] 

{Enter  Dentist  vnth  tumbler  of  water.  As  he  advances, 
notes  the  absence  of  James  and  Eli,  and  sees  the  open  window  ; 
U>oks  much  astonished,  almost  letting  the  tximbler  fall  from  Im 


160  THE   SEIZURE. 

hand;  recovers,  puts  it  on  the  table,  and  rushes  to  the  tuiiuhtt^ 
ehouting,  "Stop  thief!  stop  thief!") 

Eli  {answering  from  the  distance). — Can't,  I've  got  to 
catch  James. 

Dentist  {hanging  down  the  windou  and  looking  about  the 
room'). — The  most  provoking  thieves  are  those  of  time  and 
patience,  and  there's  no  telling  what  else  they  took. 
[Curtain  falls.] 

Mrs.  S.  L.  Oberholtzer. 


THE  SEIZURE; 

OK, 

A  SENTIMENTAL  MAIDEN's  MISTAKE. 

Dramatized  from  Shaudy  McGuire,  an  Irish  novel  of  the  early  part  of  the 
Nineteenth  Century. 

DRAMATIS  PERSOK-E. 

Christophek  Joice,  lieutenant  of  Revenue  Police, 

Rev.  Baxter  Cantwell,  an  English  clergyman  of  doubtful  character. 

Sergeant  and  Policemen   (number  of  policemen  may  vary  from  three  to 

twelve). 
Miss  Rebecca  Cantwell,  a  maiden  of  mature  years,  with  youthful  aspira- 

tions. 
Mrs.  Baxter  Cantwell,  sister- in -law  to  Rebecca. 
Maid. 

Stage  Properties.— Letter,  call  bell,  large  valise,  stuffed  canary,  and  bird' 
cage,  large  dusting  brush,  small  mouth  whistle,  blunderbuss. 

Scene  I. 
Hoom  in  the  Police  Barracks.    Lieutenant  Joice  seated  ai  a 
table  with  an  open  letter  in  hi.s  hand. 

Lieut,  (referring  to  letter). — Daniel  Doogan  has  this  day 
lodged  information  that  two  casks  of  unpermitted  liquor 
were  deposited  by  James  Gallinach,  of  Lough  Devuish, 
ia  the  cellar  of  the  Rev.  Baxter  Cantwell.    As  the  smug- 


THE  SEIZURE.  161 

gted  goods  are  deposited  within  your  district,  1  turn  the 
matter  over  to  you.  Signed  by  the  Lieutenant  of  Police 
Bt  Stranorlan. 

Lieut. — Why,  this  is  most  vexatious,  absolutely  horrible 
— to  search  the  house  for  smuggled  goods  where  I  have  re- 
ceived so  much  kindness;  and  a  brother  Orangeman's  too. 
That  brother  a  magistrate,  a  minister,  and  himself  the 
greatest  enemy  the  smuggler  ever  met  upon  the  bench.  If 
I  proceed  to  the  search,  I  may  leave  the  country  at  once. 
The  Orangemen  of  the  neighborhood  may  take  my  life  in 
revenge  for  the  insult  offered  their  master  and  chaplain, 
though  he  is  a  villain,  and  if  I  don't  do  my  duty  I  lose  my 
commission.  Worse  still — there's  Miss  Cantwell,  too ;  she 
will  never  survive  it.  I  am  told  she  is  ever  speaking  of  me. 
I  know  it.  Her  attentions  to  me  are  unmistakable.  I  never 
gave  her  cause,  but  what  then  ? — that  don't  alter  the  case; 
and  to  bring  up  a  party  of  Revenue  Police  to  seareh  her 
brother's  house  for  contraband  liquor,  ay,  that's  the  mis- 
chief of  it.  Well !  [meditatively^,  I'll  ring  for  the  Sergeant. 
[Rings  belL'\  He's  a  brother  and  a  member  of  the  lodge ;  per- 
haps he  may  devise  some  plan,  for  I  can't.    [Ente7'  Sergeanf] 

Lieut.  Joiee. — Read  that  [jwintiiig  to  letter'],  and  let 
me  hear  what  you  think  of  it. 

Sergeant  (reading). — To  Christopher  Joice,  Esq.,  Lieu- 
tenant of  Revenue  Police,  Donegal,  Dear  Sir :  Daniel 
Doogan,  etc.  [Reading  rapidly  the  remainder  of  the  letter.'} 
Very  disagreeable.    [Lays  letter  down  again.} 

Lieut,  (emphatically). — Very  ! 

Sergeant. — But  it  might  be  worse,  sir. 

Lie^it. — Worse !    How  so  ? 

Sergeant. — Why,  if  it  were  seized  ;  for  then,  very  likelj, 
the  magistrate  would  be  superseded  and  the  glorious  cau»e 
suffer.     You  wouldn't  wish  that,  sir. 


Lieut. — No  ;  well — 

Sergeant. — Well,  then,  give  him  the  wiuk~- just  a  hinl 
that  you  might  happen  to  go  that  way  about  ten  o'cloclj 
to-night. 

Lieut. — Very  good  ;  and  then — 

Sergeant. — Then  discharge  your  duty,  sir,  fearlessly,  as 
the  laws  of  the  service  require. 

Lieut. — Right ;  excellent.  Sergeant.  We  have  both  hil 
on  the  same  expedient.  It  requires  secrecy  and  caution, 
however,  to  manage  it  properly,  and  knowing  you  to  be  a 
prudent  fellow,  and  one  of  ourselves  besides,  I  resolved  tc 
consult  you.  Now,  you  had  better  go  yourself  to  the  Mooi 
this  evening,  see  Miss  Cantwell— the  Rector  will  be  al 
the  lodge — and  break  the  matter  to  her  as  cautiously  and 
respectfully  as  possible.  Observe  me,  if  the  liquor  be  in 
the  house  she  will  at  once  take  the  hint ;  if  it  be  not,  she 
may  get  offended  at  our  officiousness ;  so  let  the  circum- 
stances best  direct  you  how  to  act.  When  night  falls  go 
up  as  secretly  as  possible ;  say  I  shall  be  there  at  ten 
o'clock  precisely.  Go,  now,  and  act  judiciously.  \_Ezii 
Sergeant.^ 

Scene  II. 

Boudoir   of  3Ess   Rebecca    Cantwell.     Rebecca  asleep  in  a 
large  arm  chair  by  the  fire.     Enter  Mrs.  Cantwell. 

Rebecca  (dreaming). — Kit,  Kit,  my  own  Kit !  \_Stretching 
cut  her  arms.']  Come  and  bring  me  away  from  this  terrible 
place.    Oh !  I  am  thine,  thine  forever. 

Mrs.  Cantwell.  — What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Rebecca  ? 
[shaking  her  by  the  arms.l  What  nonsense,  Rebecca! 
Wake  up  and  tell  me  who  is  this  "  Kit "  you  invoke  ? 

Rebecca  (still  dreaming). — Yes,  dear  Kit,  I  know  ft  U 
rou — my  own  Kit — thine,  thine  forever ! 


THE  &ZIZURE.  16S 

Mrs.  Cant,  (shaking  her  more  vigorously}. — Stop — ceasa 
this  folly,  Rebecca !  Wake  up  and  tell  me  of  whom  you 
speak. 

Rebecca  (opening  her  eyes). — Oh,  is  it  only  you?  Why 
did  you  disturb  me  ?  I  thought  it  \Yas  \_sleepily'] — I  thought 
it — was — \_Clo'ies  her  eyes  and  is  again  asleep.^ 

Mrs.  Cant. — Very  good,  very  good.  I  suspect  who  this 
Mr.  Kit  is.     Very  well,  we  shall  see.    [^Exit.'] 

Rebecca  {atoakening  sloidy). — Oh  !  that  it  should  be  but 
a  dream.  But  something  whispers  me  that  my  vision  will 
yet  be  realized,  that  I  shall  yet  hear  that  voice,  sweet  and 
silvery  as  an  angel's,  saying,  as  it  said  in  my  dream,  "  Re- 
becca! Rebecca!  come,  fly  wuth  me,"  and  looking  up,  I 
shall  see  in  very  truth  the  lovely  face  of  Mr.  Christopher 
Joice  gazing  down  upon  me  with  countenance  illumined 
by  the  joyous  light  of  love.  [  Gets  up  and  walks  to  the  mir- 
ror.'] Once,  when  I  was  fresh  and  young,  I  valued  lightly 
the  love  that  was  showered  upon  me.  \_Gazing  in  the  mir- 
ror.'] Now  I  am  faded.  Yes,  thou  tellest  no  falsehoods, 
thou  reflectest  but  an  image — an  image  somewhat  changed 
for  the  worse,  the  worse.  Well,  I  don't  know ;  that  de- 
pends on  men's  taste.  Some  like  the  young,  and  some  pre- 
fer the — the  lady  a  little  more  experienced  than  the  romp- 
ing girl  of  twenty-five. 

"  Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers," 

is  an  age  young  enough,  I  should  imagine.  A  wife  should 
be  a  serious  matron,  not  a  Avayward,  giddy  child.  The  pre- 
tensions of  young  flirts  nowadays  are  really  intolerable. 
Marriage  at  sixteen  !  It's  absolutely  frightful,  a  disgrace 
to  the  morality  of  the  age  we  live  in.  Generally  speaking, 
men  are  fools,  and  as  the  world  grows  older  the  number  in- 


^®*  THE  SEIZURE. 

creases.  Kit,  however,  is  not  among  that  number :  he  haa 
too  much  good  sense  to  be  running  after  gilded  butterflies. 
Worth,  solid  worth,  is  his  choice.  Yes,  I  have  always 
thought  so,  and  last  night's  dream  confirms  me  in  the  be- 
lief, for  my  dreams  are  ever  true  as  the  wakiug  reality. 
[K}iock  at  the  door.']    You  may  enter. 

Maid  {entering,  closely  followed  by  Mrs.  Cantwell).— There 
is  a  messeuger  below  from  Lieutenant  Joice,  who  desires  a 
few  moments  speech  with  you  . 

Iiebecca.—Shovf  him  to  the  library.  I  will  come  down 
at  ouce.    \_£xit  Maid.] 

Mrs.  Cant,  (passing  Maid  in  the  doorivay,  and  entering 
the  room). — What  is  it  that  the  girl  says  ? 

Rebecca  {carelessly).~^ome  message.  Nothiug  import- 
ant, I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Cant— I  thought  I  heard  her  mention  Mr.  Joice's 
name.  I  trust,  Eebecca  [severely'],  you  will  be  cautioug 
tiow  you  receive  any  private  message  from  that  gentleman. 
It  is  very  well  to  be  polite  and  even  condescending  to  the 
youug  man,  since  he  happens  to  be  a  convert  to  our  religion ; 
but  anything  more— no,  I  cannot,  I  will  not  imagine  such 
a  thing. 

Rebecca. — Really,  my  dear  sister,  I  must  not  permit  you 
to  speak  in  this  fashion.  Surely,  as  you  have  already  said 
—surely  you  cannot  imagine  a  lady  of  my  position  could 
for  a  moment  entertain  a  serious  thought  of  such  a  man. 

Mrs.  Cant. — Just  think,  Rebecca,  if  Baxter  suspected 
such  an  intimacy! 

Rebecca. — Ah,  do  now — do,  my  dear  sister — do  cease  to 
tease  me.     How  can  you  suspect  me  of  such  folly. 

Mrs.  Cant. — Suspect!  and  is  that  so  very  wonderful? 
Why,  you  are  forever  speaking  of  him,  Rebecca,  and  when 
he  is  here  you  seem  to  have  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  any 


THE  SEIZURE.  165 

one  else ;  perhaps  sleeping  as  well  as  waking,  you  are  tliiok- 
iug  of  him  if  the  truth  were  told. 

Rebecca  (coquettishly). — Oh,  shame !  shame,  sister !  Cease 
this  folly.    I  am  not  at  all  in  a  jesting  mood. 

Mrs.  Cant. — Well,  Rebecca,  all  I  shall  say  now  is  that 
your  manner  toward  Mr.  Joice  is  very  remarkable. 
[Exit.'] 

Rebecca. — Perhaps  so.  I  must  be  more  cautious,  or  I 
shall  betray  myself  And  now  for  his  message.  Is  my 
dream  indeed  about  to  be  realized.  \_PutUng  her  hand  to 
her  heart.'\    Ah,  thou  wayward  heart,  be  still.    [^Exit.'] 

Scene  III. 

Library.    Sergeant  of  Police  standing  in  the  centre  of  the 

room,  cap  in  hand.     Enter  Rebecca. 

Sergeant  {botoing  obsequiously). — I  am  the  bearer  of  a 
message  to  you  from  Lieutenant  Joice. 

Rebecca  (i^vith  much  maidenly  modesty'). — Oh !  indeed, 
from  Mr.  Joice  ? 

Sergeant. — Yes,  madam ;  he  requests  me  to  say  he  in- 
tends calling  here  to-night  at  ten  o'clock  precisely,  and 
hopes  nothing  will  be  in  the  way.  You  understand  me, 
madam  ?    I  cannot  be  more  particular, 

Rebecca  (very  nervously). — Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear  !  you  quite 
frighten  me ;  what  a  strange  message.  [ J.su/e.]  I  knew  it. 
I  felt  it.    My  dreams  are  ever  true. 

Sergeant. — He  will  come  very  privately ;  no  one  may 
be  the  wiser,  you  know.  He  hopes  all  difficulties  may  be 
removed.  You  understand,  madam ;  it's  unnecessary  to  be 
more  explicit. 

(Rebecca  nods  and  smiles.) 

Sergeant. — He  can't  help  it,  madam  ;  no,  indeed.  He'« 
ft  victim  to  his  feelings — he  is  indeed. 


i66  THE  SEIZUEE. 

Bebeeca. — Poor  fellow. 

Sergeant. — Oh !  indeed,  madam,  if  you  knew  the  state 
Df  his  feelings  you'd  pity  him. 

Rebecca. — I  do  pity  him. 

Sergeant. — To-night,  madam,  remember,  at  ten  o'clock: 
let  all  be  right  when  he  comes. 

Rebecca  {covering  her  face  with  her  hands). — Oh,  dear! 
It  will  become  so  public.    What  will  the  world  say  of  it  ? 

Sergeant  (soothingly). — Not  at  all,  madam,  not  at  all. 
It  will  all  be  hushed  up.  Don't  be  terrified,  madam,  it 
has  happened  to  the  best  families  in  the  kiugdom  ;  it  has, 
indeed. 

Rebecca. — Oh !  but  think — think  how  the  world  will 
speak  of  it ;  it  will  all  be  in  the  newspapers,  too.  Oh,  dear! 
we  must  leave  the  country  forever ;  tell  him  that  we  must 
fly  forever.    Oh,  dear !  how  the  thought  terrifies  me. 

Sergeant. — Upon  my — I  beg  your  pardon,  madam  ;  but, 
faith,  I  can't  see  why  you  take  on  so  for  such  a  trifle. 
Sure,  you  know,  madam,  if  you  manage  right — and  you 
have  plenty  of  time  to  put  all  to  rights  before  ten  o'clock 
— you  may  defy  the  world ;  and  then — [il/rs.  Cantwell  is 
heard  approaching.'] 

Rebecca  (slipping  gold  into  the  Sergeant\s  hand). — Yes, 
yes ;  I  understand.  You  must  go  quickly.  Be  cautious  and 
faithful,   \_Exit  Sergeant  by  one  door  and  Rebecca  by  another.] 

Scene  IV. 

Library.  Light  burning  dimly.  Enter  Rebecca  in  travel- 
ing costume  and  carrying  a  large  valise.  She  turns  on  the 
light  and  consults  the  clock  on  the  mantle. 

Rebecca. — It  yet  lacks  five  minutes  of  ten.  How  strange 
lihat  Kit  should  appoint  that  hour,  the  very  time  at  which 


THE  SEIZURE.  167 

my  reverend  brother  is  expected  to  return  from  the  lodge. 
But,  then,  lovers  are  never  prudent.  No,  prudence  is  too  cold 
for  love.  Yet,  should  we  happen  to  be  surprised,  how  terri- 
ble would  be  the  consequences !  Well,  there  is  danger  in 
every  adventure — of  course,  that  is  naturally  to  be  antici- 
pated— besides,  danger  gives  a  more  lively  interest.  What  of 
danger?  Is  not  my  heart  young,  and  daring,  and  resolute  in 
such  a  cause — the  cause  of  Kit  and  liberty?  How  slowly 
the  time  passes !  [^Again  glancing  toward  the  clock.'\  Ah  ! 
there  is  my  poor  little  canary  \_going  over  to  the  cage'\  sleep- 
ing on  its  perch  with  its  little  head  under  its  wing.  It  has 
been  caged  up,  like  myself,  for  years,  and  like  myself,  has 
borne  its  imprisonment  with  resignation — no,  not  resigna- 
tion, with  patience — because  there  was  no  alternative. 
Well,  if  the  dear  bird  found  the  door  of  its  cage  opened  by 
some  good  angel,  would  it  not  fly  away  and  be  free  ?  To 
be  sure  it  would.  Yes,  and  I  must  give  it  liberty,  too.  At 
the  moment  when  my  own  long  looked  for  happiness  is 
about  to  be  realized,  I  must  not  be  niggardly  of  my  favors. 
No,  three  hearts  shall  beat  happily  on  the  morrow.  [  Opens 
the  door  of  the  cage.  Clock  strikes  ten.  Rebecca  places  her 
hand  on  Iter  heart  and  listens  in  evident  agitation.  As  the  laM 
stroke  dies  away,  she  seats  herself  at  the  window.  Enter  Maid 
and  Lieutenant  Joice  in  a  stealthy  and  sec^'et  manner.^ 

Maid. — Ah!  she  is  here.  Lieutenant  Joice,  Miss  Cant- 
well. 

(^Rebecca  rises  and  extends  her  hand.) 

Lieid.  J.  {advancing  and  pressing  her  hand  affectionately). 
— Oh !  my  dear  Miss  Cantwell,  can  you — say — can  you  par- 
don this — 

Rebecca. — Oh,  dear,  dear.   I  fear  I  shall  never  be  able  to — 

Ldeut  J. — Don't  be  terrified,  Miss  Cantwell.  Be  com- 
posed; it's  quite  a  common  thing. 


168 


THE  8EIZUEE, 


Rebecca. — Oh,  I  kuow  that,  my  dear  Kit;  but  I  aw 
naturally  so  nervous,  so  excitable. 

Lieut  J. — There  is  no  cause,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Cant' 
well,  for  this  excitement. 

Rebecca  {siyiks  sobbing  into  a  chair). — Oh,  what  will  the 
world  say? 

Lieut.  J. — The  world !  What  has  the  world  to  do  with 
it? 

Rebecca. — Oh,  think  of  the  newspapers  and  the  scanda. 
mongers. 

Lieut.  J. — Mere  folly,  my  dear  Miss  Cantwell.  You 
agitate  yourself  quite  too  much  for  such  a  trifle.  Be  calm, 
do,  now ;  it  will  all  be  over  in  a  few  minutes, 

Rebecca  (with  sudden  calmness). — I  am  perfectly  re- 
signed. 

Lieut.  J.  (encouragingly). — Trust  all  to  me. 

Rebecca. — Perhaps  I  am  too  confiding,  my  dear  Kit.  I 
feel  I  have  not  done  right  in  meeting  you  here.  But  fata 
would  have  it  so — our  destiny  is  not  in  our  own  hands. 

Lieut.  J.  {perplexed). — Why,  my  dear  Miss  Cantwell,  I 
fear  I  cannot  well  understand  the  cause  of  your  apprehen- 
sions. Have  you  had  everything  arranged  as  the  Sergeant 
intimated  ? 

Rebecca. — Everything. 

Lieut.  J. — There  is  nothing  to  dread,  is  there  ? 

Rebecca  (aside). — What  a  question.  No,  nothing, '  1 
believe. 

Lieut.  J. — Well,  and  why  do  you  appear  so  terrified  ? 

Rebecca  (becoming  agitated). — Don't  know;  woman's 
iieart  is  fearful — the  weakness  of  our  sex,  perhaps.  It  is 
such  a  dreadful  step  to  take,  you  know. 

Lieut.  J. — Dreadful  step !  [^Aside.']  What  the  miscbiaf 
4oes  the  woman  mean? 


THE  SEIZURE.  169 

Rebecca. — You  meu  thiuk  little  of  it,  perhaps;  but  is  all 
veady  ?  [Adde.']  Why  is  he  so  cold  and  apathetic  ?  This 
lelay  is  dangerous.  My  brother  may  return  at  any  moment. 
Have  you  brought  any  one  to  assist?  I  mean  to — 
,  Lieut.  J. — To  assist?  Yes;  the  men  are  in  waiting 
beyond  there  among  the  trees. 

Rebecca  {taking  up  the  valise  and  setting  it  on  the  xm.'.idoW' 
sill). — Well  then,  call  one  of  them,  and  have  him  takts  this 
to  the  carriage.  I  intrust  my  life  and  my  honor  to  you, 
Kit.  I  have  never  concealed  my  love  from  you-^never; 
and,  oh !  remember,  Kit,  remember  in  after  years  the 
sacrifices  I  have  made  for  you  this  night ;  that  I  am  leav- 
ing all  that  is  near  and  dear  to  me  in  this  world — home, 
friends,  kindred,  and  country  perhaps — to  be  thine — thine 
forever.  [^Load,  knocking  is  heard.']  But,  what's  that? 
Knocking  at  the  hall  door.  Kit !  Kit !  that's  my  brother's 
knock.    Oh  !  let  us  fly — fly  while  there  is  yet  time. 

Lieut.  J.  i^in  utter  amazement). — Fly!  What?  You  must 
fiave  mistaken — 

Rebecca, — Mistaken !  Mr.  Joice,  you  surely — you  came 
here  to — 

Lieut.  J. — To  make  a  seizure.  {^Rebecca  screams  and  falls 
fainting  on  the  floor.  Joice  picks  her  up  and  lays  her  on  a 
sofa.  He  is  bending  over  her  untying  her  bonnet,  xvhen  the 
door  is  burst  violently  open,  and  Rev.  Baxter  Cantwell  enters. 
He  rushes  at  Joice,  and,  seizing  a  large  dtisting  brush,  deals 
him  a  heavy  blow  that  fells  him  to  the  floor. "] 

Rev.  B.  Cant,  (flourishing  the  brush). — Villain !  vil- 
lain!  what  means  this  outrage?  [Enters  Mrs.  Cant,  and 
Maid.] 

Lieut.  J.  (raising  his  arm  to  protect  his  head). — It's  all  a 
mistake. 

Mrs.  Cant. — Mistake!     Wretch  I     Miscreant  I     Is  that 


170 


THE  SEIZURE. 


the  evidence  of  a  mistr.ke  ?  [^Points  to  valise,  lohich  ha* 
been  knocked  off  the  window  and  lies  on  the  floor  bursi 
open."] 

Rev.  Cant. — Low,  mean,  unprincipled,  vile  wretch.' 
\Jiushing  at  Joice,  who  scrambles  to  his  feet.']  Is  this  the 
reward  you  offer  us  for  all  our  kindness  ? 

Lieid.  J. — It's  only  a  mistake.  I  wished  to  save  you  the 
disgrace  of  a  public  exposure ;  but  now  [blowing  a  small 
whistle] — now  I  shall  treat  you  with  as  little  civility  as  your 
conduct  deserves. 

{Sergeant  and  policemen  tumble  in  precipitately  through  the 
window.) 

Rev.  Cant. — Merciful  powers !  What  does  all  this  mean  ? 
Is  my  house  to  be  polluted  by  this  fellow  and  his  men  \ 
Villain !  do  you  dare  me  to  my  face — do  you  ?  Are  you  re- 
solved to  carry  her  off  by  brute  force — are  you  ? 

Lieut.  J. — I  come  to  carry  off  your  smuggled  liquor- 
not  your  sister;  and  only  that  I  respect  your  calling  more 
than  you  yourself  have  done  to-night,  I  should  arrest  you 
for  obstructing  me — a  King's  officer — in  the  discharge  of 
my  duty.  Sergeant,  proceed  to  the  cellar  and  make  the 
seizure. 

Rev.  Cant,  {seizing  a  blunderbuss  from  the  corner). — Holdf 
bold !  Countermand  that  order,  or — [Raises  the  blunderbuss 
\o  a  level  with  the  officer'' s  hearty 

Lieut.  J. — I  shall  do  my  duty.  Men,  guard  the  room, 
[Policeman  seizes  the  blunderbuss  and  wrests  it  from  the 
kands  of  Rev.  Caniwell.  Another  intercepts  Mrs.  Cantweli 
IS  she  is  about  to  leave  the  room  for  assistance.  Maid  is  busy 
mth  Miss  Rebecca.]  Sergeant,  take  command  1  This  gen- 
tleman is  your  prisoner,  at  least  till  I  return  from  the  cel- 
lar. [Exit  Lieutenant,  with  remainder  of  the  men.  If  then 
^8  but  three,  one  should  remain  with  the  Sergeant,  and  two 


THE  SEIZURE.  171 

(iccompany  the  Lieutenant.     If  more,  let  two  remain  loiik 
the  Sergeant,  and  the  rest  go  with  the  Lieutenant.'^ 

Scene  V. 
Same  as  before.    Me-erUer  Lieutenant,  with  men  carrying  tw9 

kegs. 

Lieut.  J. — Now,  sir,  you  are  at  liberty.  Should  I  here- 
after think  it  necessary  to  prosecute  you  for  obstruction, 
you  can  be  easily  found.  I  have  received  a  written  infor- 
mation of  two  casks  of  unpermitted  liquor  having  been 
deposited  in  your  cellar,  reverend  sir,  by  one  James  Gal- 
linach,  of  Lough  Devnish,  and,  accordingly,  have  seized 
these  two  casks,  believing  them  to  be  the  same,  and  shall 
detain  them  till  such  time  as  my  inspector  may  call  upon 
you,  sir,  in  open  court,  to  show  cause  why  you  may  not  be 
fined  in  the  penalty  of  one  hundred  pounds  sterling  for 
attempting  to  defraud  his  Majesty's  revenue.  I  came  here, 
reverend  sir,  to  discharge  my  duty,  and  however  painful 
it  may  have  been  to  me  under  the  circumstances,  yet  was 
I  bound  to  execute  it  faithfully  or  lose  my  commission. 
Miss  Cantwell  will  doubtless  explain  to  you,  when  she  re- 
covers from  the  effects  of  this  very  disagreeable  mistake, 
how  friendly  were  ray  intentions  in  this  unlucky  affair. 
As  to  the  violence  offered  myself  personally,  I  pardon  it ; 
for  the  rest,  the  law  must  take  its  course.  [2o  his  men."] 
Take  up  the  liquor  and  proceed  to  your  quarters.  [Exit 
Lieutenant,  Sergeant,  and  men.  Rebecca  rises  with,  difficulty 
and,  supported  by  the  Maid,  glides  unobserved  from  the 
room.'] 

Mrs.  Cant. — Well,  sir,  this  is  a  pretty  pickle  the  Rector's 
family  has  gotten  into,  eh,  isn't  it  ? 

Rev.  Cant. — It's  painful  to  flesh  and  blood,  ray  dear,  6ut 
we  muat  bear  it  with  patience  and  resignatioD 


172  SIGNING  THE  PLEDGE. 

3Trs.    Cant. — Veiy  good,  sir ;  and  I  presume  you  will, 
after  this  night,  continue  to  commit  smugglers  to  jail? 

Rev.  Cant.—Yow  speak  bitterly,  my  dear.     It  is  right\ 
that  we  should  do  our  duty  under  all  circumstances. 
[Curtain.] 

Esther  Wilson  Brown. 


SIGNING  THE  PLEDGE. 

characters. 
Akthub  Ed.  Walter. 

Will.  Louis.  Mk.  Blake. 

g^£]^£, Parlor.    Arthur  seated  at  the  table  writing  in  a  booh 

Eater  Walter. 

Arthur.— Vm  glad  you've  come ;  you're  the  very  boy  1 
wanted  to  see. 

Walter.—\N&\\,  that's  lucky,  for  you're  the  very  chap 
I'm  after.     Can  you  go  out  with  me  this  evening? 

Arthur.— ^\l  down,  Walter.  No,  I  was  in  hopes  you 
could  spend  the  evening  with  me.  Our  society,  of  which  ] 
am  secretary,  meets  here  this  evening. 

Fa/^er.— Society!  why,  I  thought  you  were  not  going  tc 
join  the  "  Wild  Rangers." 

Arthur.— ^0, 1  should  think  not,  the  name  is  enough  for 
me,  I  mean  the  "  Blue  Ribbou  Society." 

TFaften—That  sounds  like  a  girls'  society.  What  is  it 
for  ?    What  do  you  do  ? 

Arthur.— It  is  to  help  the  boys  grow  up  to  be  sober 
Konest,  industrious  men.     Don't  you  want  to  join  it? 


SIGNING    THE    PLEDGE.  173 

Walter. — I  don't  know.  I  expect  to  grow  up  to  be  a 
Sober,  honest,  and  industrious  man. 

(J.  knock  at  the  door.  Arthur  opens  it.  Enter  Ed,  Louis 
and  Will.) 

Arthur. — Take  seats  boys,  you  are  just  in  time.  I  am 
trying  to  persuade  Walter  to  join  us. 

Louis. — I  stopped  to  see  you  about  it  to-day,  but  you 
were  not  at  borne. 

Walter. — I  wish  some  of  you  would  tell  me  what  it  is. 
Is  there  any  fun  in  it  ? 

Will. — There  are  no  larks  in  it,  as  the  "  Wild  Rangers" 
have,  if  that  is  what  you  mean  by  fun. 

Ed. — Yes,  they  will  have  so  much  fun  the  police  will 
catch  them  some  night. 

Walter. — Well !  I  must  be  off  down  the  street.  Are  you 
going  to  tell  me  what  you  do  in  your  "  Blue  Ribbon 
Society  "? 

Arthur. — All  you  will  have  to  do  is  to  sign  the  pledge 
never  to  touch,  taste,  or  haudle  intoxicating  liquors. 

Walter  (conteniptuouslij). — Oh !  It's  a  tem2:)erance  society. 
No,  I  thank  you,  I  don't  join  anything  of  that  sort. 

Louis. — Why  not? 

Walter. — Oh  ! — because — Well !  I  don't  want  to.  I  in- 
tend to  drink  or  let  it  alone,  just  as  I  please.  Father  says 
he  doesn't  believe  in  signing  a  pledge — that  a  man  should 
have  manliness  enough  about  him  to  stop  before  he  drinks 
too  much. 

Will. — What  do  you  mean  by  too  much  ? 

WaUer. — Why,  getting  drunk,  staggering  along  the 
streets,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Will. — Do  you  suppose  a  man  ever  intends  doing  that 
svhen  he  commeuces  drinking? 


174  SIGNING   THE   PLEDGE. 

Walter. — No ;  but  men  should  have  sense  enough  to  sto^ 
before  they  go  so  far. 

Will. — Perhaps  they  can't  stop. 

Waltdr. — I  wouldn't  give  much  for  a  man  that  has  not 
will  power  enough  to  stop  what  he  knows  is  injuring  him. 

£f/.— My  father  says  that  these  moderate  drinkers  do 
more  harm  than  all  the  drunkards  put  together.  There 
isn't  more  than  one  man  out  of  ten  that  can  drink  or  let  it 
alone.  And  because  he  can  drink  a  little  and  stop,  the 
other  nine  think  they  can  do  the  same.  But  they  find 
their  mistake  when  it  is  too  late. 

(Jfr.  Blake  comes  in  while  Ed.  is  speaking,  and  standi 
listening,  unseen  by  the  boys-) 

Mr.  Blake  (^stepjnng  foriuard). — Bravo !  Edward,  I  am 
glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  Boys,  I  have  been  listening  to 
your  conversation,  and  I  should  like  to  relate  an  experi- 
ence of  my  own  for  Walter's  benefit,  if  you  have  time  to 
hear  it. 

Walter. — Certainly,  Mr.  Blake.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
listen. 

3Ir.  Blake  (taking  a  chair). — When  I  was  about  eigh- 
teen years  of  age  a  temperance  pledge  was  introduced  iu 
our  Sunday-school.  Several  of  my  friends  signed  it,  but 
I,  like  Walter,  thought  it  unmanly  to  sign  a  pledge.  I  had 
one  very  dear  friend,  Harry  North,  who  wished  to  sign  it. 
I  knew  if  he  signed  it,  it  would  be  for  life,  for  he  always 
kept  his  word ;  so  I  persuaded  him  not  to  do  it,  told  him 
he  could  abstain  from  drinking  just  as  well  without  it.  The 
years  rolled  round ;  we  went  together  to  college,  and  were 
almost  inseparable.  Many  merry  times  did  we  have  together, 
and  often  when  we  would  have  our  little  champagne  sup- 
pers with  our  friends,  I  would  congratulate  Harry  that  he 
had  not  signe(^  the  pledge,  or  it  would  have  spoiled  oui  fup- 


SIGNING    THE    PLEDGE.  179 

I  attainea  my  majurity  while  at  college  and  celebrated  the 
©veut  by  giviug  a  party  to  our  club.  [Speaking  with  emo- 
tion.'] Aud  oh  !  my  dear  boys,  may  none  of  you  ever  have 
cause  to  look  back  to  your  twenty-first  birthday  with  as  sad 
a  heart  as  I  do  to-uight.  After  all  these  years  the  scene  is 
as  fresh  iu  my  memory  as  though  it  had  occurred  yesterday. 
I,  of  course,  treated  the  boys  to  liquors.  I  noticed  that 
Harry  drank  more  thau  the  oue  or  two  glasses  to  which  he 
had  limited  himself,  aud  that  when  we  left  the  club  rooms 
he  was  excited.  On  our  way  home  he  aud  another  student 
were  arguing  about  some  trivial  matter,  and  when  they 
reached  a  certain  saloon,  insisted  upon  going  in.  Boys,  I 
cannot  go  into  the  details  of  that  scene.  Harry,  under  the 
influence  of  the  liquor  I  had  furnished  him,  drew  a  pistol 
aud  shot  one  whom  he  had  always  respected.  Then,  fran- 
tic at  the  terrible  deed  he  had  committed,  blew  out  his  own 
brains  before  any  one  could  interfere.  It  was  a  fearful 
blow  to  me.  I  felt  that  I  was  to  blame  for  his  death.  And 
oh !  the  agony  that  I  endured  for  weeks  and  months  after 
my  friend  was  buried  forever  from  my  sight!  All  this  suf- 
fering was  due  to  Avhat  I  considered  an  innocent  glass  of 
liquor.  Bo}'^,  there  is  danger  in  it  all.  There  is  no  safety 
except  in  total  abstinence.  My  terrible  experience  has 
made  me  feel  that  I  must  warn  every  one  whom  my  voice 
can  reach  of  the  deadly  evil  that  lurks  in  the  sparkling 
glass. 

Walter. — I  thank  you  deeply  for  telling  me  this  sad  tale. 
I  shall  never  want  to  look  at  liquor  again.  Boys,  I  will 
sign  your  pledge,  and  that  means  I  shall  be  a  life  member. 

(Boys  all  rise.  Arthur  hands  him  a  pen  and  the  book. 
He  writes  his  name.     Mr.  Blake  taJces  his  hand.) 

Mr.  Blake  (ea.rnrMly). — I  pray  that  by  your  resolve,  many 
Ottay  be  saved  from  a  wrecked  and  ruined  life.     And  may 


(76  JOE  Fleming's  thanksgiving. 

each  of  you,  both  by  precept  and  example,  do  all  in  youi 
power  to  promote  the  principle  of  total  abstinence  in  oat 

land. 

[Curtain.] 

Ella  H.  Clement. 


JOE  FLEMING'S  THANKSGIVING. 

(Adapted.) 

CHAKACTEBS. 
Joe  Fleming,  poor,  but  energetic.  Nellie  Fleming,  his  wife. 

Scene. — A  modestly  furnished  living  room.     Table  in  centre 

spread  with  tea  service.     Cradle  at  left,  by  which  Nellie 

Fleming  is  discovered  sitting.     Time,  evening. 

Nellie. — Dear,   dear    me!      What    a    long,    miserable 

Thansgiving  day  I  have  spent,  with  nobody   to  talk  to 

but  baby.     And  now  it  is  past  seven  o'clock,  and  Joe  has 

not  come  home  yet.     How  hard  he  does  work  at  that  office, 

to  be  sure.     Couldn't  rest  even  on  Tlianksgiving,  but  must 

be  off  to  town  early  and  must  stay  in  town  late;  and  when  he 

comes  home  its  precious  little  time  he  has  to  talk  with  me, 

isn't  it,  baby  dear?    Papa  has  so   much  writing  to   do, 

dearest,  hasn't  he  ?    See  how   baby  laughs,  as  if  he  under« 

stood  every  word.     Well,  it's  all  for  you,  little  one.     I'm 

eure  he  never  worked  so  hard  until  you  were  born.     Do 

you  know  what  I  said  to  him  ?     No,  of  course  you  don't ; 

how  could  you  ?    Well,  I  said   to  him,  "  Joe,  we  ought  to 

lay  up  a  little  money  for  baby's  sake!"    "So  we  ought, 

dear,"  said  papa,  "  and  so  we  will,"  and  then  papa  took 

extra  writing   from  the  law  stationer,  which  he  does  at 

aight,  and  mamma  spent  her  leisure  hours  writing  sketches 


JOE  Fleming's  thanksgivikg.  177 

foi  a  story  paper,  and  the  money  began  to  come  in,  and 
the  little  pile  grew  and  grew  until  at  last  we  had  a  hun- 
dred dollars  saved.  And  then,  baby,  dear,  what  did 
mamma  want  papa  to  do  with  it?  She  wanted  him  to 
speculate,  didn't  she  ?  And  he  wouldn't.  "  No,"  he  said, 
"  small  gains  and  sure,  that's  my  motto."  O  baby,  dear! 
if  we  were  only  rich.  If  you  could  but  get  a  college  edu- 
cation and  go  abroad,  and  take  your  place  with  the  wealthy 
and  honored  of  the  land ! 

(Footsteps  are  heard  outside  R.  Nellie  rises  suddenly  and 
the  next  instant  Joe  Fleming  bursts  into  the  room  in  an  ex- 
cited manner. 

Nellie. — O  Joe!  I'm  so  glad  you've  come.  You  don't 
know  what  a  dull  day— what  a  miserable  Thanksgiving  I 
have  had— but  what's  the  matter,  dear  ?  What  has  hap- 
pened ? 

Joe  {dropping  into  a  chair). — What  do  you  guess,  pet? 

Nellie. — Your  salary  has  been  raised  ? 

Joe. — Better  than  that! 

Nellie. — My  last  story  has  been  accepted  t 

Joe. — Better  than  that ! 

Nellie. — I  give  it  up.  O  Joe  I  tell  me  at  once.  What  It 
it? 

Joe. — Cousin  Frank  is  dead  and  he  has  left  me  all  hia 
money. 

Nellie  {bewildered). — Cousin  Frank  I 

Joe. — That  eccentric  old  fellow  out  in  Peoria,  my  third 
cousin.  He  disinherited  his  daughter  because  she  didn't 
marry  to  suit  him  ;  made  at  least  half  a  dozen  wills  and 
burned  them  all  except  one  bearing  a  codicil  that  makes  the 
fortune  mine.  Hurrah!  We're  rich  peopie  at  last  pet! 
Eighty  thousand  dollars  at  least  I  Three  cheers  I  and  giv* 
tihem  with  a  will  I 


i7»  JOE   FLEMING'S  THANKSGIVING. 

Nellie. — O  Joe !  you'll  frighten  baby  and  make  him  cry. 

Joe. — Bother  baby  !  Let  him  cry  a  little  ;  it  is  good  foi 
his  luugs.  We  can  have  a  patent  perambulator  now,  and 
a  nursery  fitted  up  with  all  the  modern  conveniences.  Eh  5 
{Gettiiiff  \i,p  and  going  over  toward  cradle.']  That's  some- 
thing worth  bawling  foi%  isn't  it,  little  chubby  cheeks i 
This  i5  indeed  a  day  for  thanksgiving. 

Nellie. — O  Joe !  And  then  we  can  have  Uncle  Thomas 
and  Aunt  Mary  to  live  wath  us. 

joe._Uncle  Tom  and  Aunt  Mary  I  What  should  thej 
live  with  us  for  ? 

Nellie. — But  Joe,  they  are  so  poor  I 

Joe.— There  are  a  great  many  poor  people  in  the  world 
Nell. 

Nellie.— KwA  Cousin  Will's  education.  We  can  help 
him  through  colh^ge  now. 

Jog. — Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  business  it  is  of  ourg 
to  help  Will  Carey  through  college  ?  Nobody  helped  me 
through  college,  I  know !  If  we're  going  to  divide  qui 
money  with  all  creation,  there  soon  will  be  an  end  of  oui 
riches. 

(Nellie  looks  pained  but  says  nothing.) 

Joe  {conthiuing).— We'll  have  a  big  house  in  town  pet. 

snd — 

Nellie — O  Joe!    I  would    much  rather    live    in  the 

country. 

Joe.— I  wouldn't  then!     The  city  for  me! 

Nellie. — Yes,  but  Joe — 

Joe.— Mrs.  Fleming  you  will  please  remember  that 
ite  money  is  mine,  not  yours. 

{Nellie  bites  her  lips  and  looks  hurt.') 

Joe  Ceontinuing).— Good  thing  for  me  that  Mary  Po*te? 


JOE  Fleming's  thanksgiving.  179 

threw  herself  away  on  that  drunken  fellow.  {_Sits  down  ai 
iable.'\     It's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good. 

Nellie  (_going  over  and  sitting  opposite  to  him). — But  Joe 
you  will  surely  make  the  poor  girl  an  allowance! 

Joe. — ]\rake  her  au  allowance  !  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the 
kind.    Why  should  I  ? 

Nellie. — Because  the  money  should  rightfully  be  hers; 
because  she  is  deprived  of  it  by  a  mere  caprice  of  her 
father ;  because  we  are  neither  more  nor  less  than  thieves 
if  we  take  it  from  her ! 

Joe. — Nell,  you're  a  fool  I  Do  look  at  things  from  a 
business  point  of  view.     The  money  is  ours  I 

Nellie. — But  it  will.be  no  blessing  to  us  if  come  by  wrong- 
fully. 

Joe. — I  am  the  best  judge  of  that  Mrs.  Fleming! 

(^Nellie  bursts  into  team's.) 

Nellie  (speaking  between  her  sobs). — Joe,  you  never  spoke 
to  me  so  unkindly  before! 

Joe. — Didn't  I  ?  AVell  you  never  made  such  a  dunce  oi 
yourself  before ! 

Nellie  (still  sobbing). — O  don't  talk  like  that  Joe; 
you'll  break  my  heart.  I'm  sure  I  only  told  you  what  I 
thought  was  right,  and  if  you  will  consider  for  a  while  I 
know  you  will  come  to  my  way  of  thinking.  Don't  let  ua 
get  selfish  because  we  are  rich,  dear  ! 

Joe. — I'm  not  selfish ;  and  I  don't  intend  to  be  selfish, 
but  I'm  not  going  to  divide  up  what  little  we  have  with  all 
our  relatives;  so  Mrs.  Fleming,  you  can  just  hold  youi 
tongue  on  that  subject,  and  I  will  thank  you  to  pour  out 
my  tea.  The  supper  must  be  stone  cold  by  this  time,  at 
it  is! 

Nellie. — O  Joe,  how  cross  you  are!    I  wish  the  money 


1»U  JOE   FLEMING'S   THANKSGIVING. 

was  ail  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  We  were  much  happier 
before  we  ever  heard  of  it.     {^Beginwmg  tojiour  out  tea.] 

Joe. — There,  there  now.  That's  nice  kind  of  talk,  1 
must  say !  Wish  it  was  all  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  do 
you  ?  A  woman's  logic,  and  no  mistake.  \_Turning  up  his 
plate.}  What's  this,  a  letter?  I  say,  Nell,  why  didn't  you 
tell  me  this  was  here  ? 

JSI'ellie  (looking  up). — What,  Joe?  O  the  letter  !  Yes,  I 
forgot.  It  came  this  morning,  soon  after  you  left.  I  put  it 
there  so  you  would  be  sure  to  get  it.  The  news  of  the  for- 
tune drove  it  quite  out  of  my  head. 

Joe  (looking  at  envelope). — From  Davis  &  Brown,  Cousin 
Frank's  lawyers  [breaking  the  seal].  Vigilant,  wide-awake 
fellows  they  are,  too!  I  think  I  shall  continue  to  employ 
them  !  [Begins  reading ;]  "  Peoria,  November  25th.  Mr, 
Joseph  Fleming,  Dear  Sir  :  We  regret  to  have  to  inform 
you—"  Eh?  How— why!.  What's  this!  The  deuce! 
[Lets  letter  fall  from  his  hands  and  sits  staring  blankly  at 
Nellie.'] 

Nellie.— 0  Joe  !  What  is  the  matter  ?  What  in  the 
world  has  happened  ? 

Joe. — What  is  the  matter?  Matter  enough,  I'm  sure. 
Instead  of  being  rich  we're  not  a  cent  better  off  than  we 
were  yesterday  I 

Nellie. — You  don't  mean  it? 

Joe. — Don't  I  though !  [Handing  her  the  letter.]  There 
take  it,  and  read  for  yourself!  They've  found  a  new  will, 
dated  ten  days  later  than  any  other  document,  and  every 
cent  is  left  to  Cousin  Frank's  daughter,  Mary — the  unduti- 
ful  girl  who  married  against  her  father's  wishes. 

Nellie  {looking  over  the  letter  while  Joe  gets  up  and  takes 
two  or  three  nervous  turns  up  and  down  the  stage). — And  so 
we  are  poor  again!    And  we  couldn't  help  anybody  if  we 


JOE  Fleming's  THANKsarvTNQ.  181 

wanted  to ;  and  baby  can't  have  a  patent  perambulatoi 
and  a  nui-sery ;  and  we  can't  atibrd  to  live  in  the  city.  O 
my,  how  the  air  castles  are  tumbling!  And  O  my,  Joe, 
dear,  how  I  rejoice  iu  their  destruction.  I  was  just  begin- 
ning to  think  that  I  had  no  cause  for  thanks  at  all,  because 
I  was  afraid  this  money  was  taking  your  love  from  me  and 
baby,  but  now — 

Jo». — But  now,  darling,  we  will  give  thanks  together. 
Do  you  know,  pet,  I  am  very  glad  too !  I  don't  think  I 
should  make  a  good  millionaire.  I  was  becoming  grasping 
already,  and  I  felt  as  though  the  whole  world  w«jre  in 
league  to  cheat  me.  I  am  rich  enough  with  you  and  baby, 
and  I  can  carve  out  a  fortune  for  myself.  This  will  teach 
us  a  lesson,  dear.  It  will  teach  us  to  be  thankful  for  the 
blessings  we  have,  and  to  be  content.  After  all  God  knows 
what  is  best  for  us! 

[Curtain.] 

Charles  Stokes  Wayi^e- 


l^ntertainment  Books  for  Voang  People 

Choice  Humor 

By  Charley  C.  Shoem&ker 

For  Reading  and  Recitation 
To  prepare  a  book  of  humor  lluit  sliall  be  free  from  anything 
that  is  coarse  or  vulgar  on  the  one  luind,  and  avoid  what  is  tlat  and 
insipid  on  the  other,  is  the  difficult  task  which  the  compiler  set  for 
himself,  and  which  he  has  successfully  accomplished.  The  book 
has  been  prepared  with  the  utmost  care,  and  it  will  be  found  aa 
interesting  and  attractive  for  private  reading  as  it  is  valuable  for 
public  entertaiument. 


Choice  Didk.Iect 

By  Charley  C.  Shoem&.ker 

For  Reading  and  Recitation 
This  book  will  be  found  to  contain  a  rare  and  valuable  collec- 
tion of  Irish,  German,  Scotch,  French,  Negro,  and  other  dialects, 
and  to  represent  every  phase  of  sentiment  from  the  keenest  humor 
or  the  tenderest  pathos  to  that  which  is  strongly  dramatic.  It 
afibrds  to  the  amateur  reader  and  the  professional  elocutionist  the 
largest  scope  for  his  varied  abilities,  and  is  entirely  free  from  any- 
thing that  would  otfeud  the  most  refined  taste. 


Choice  Dialogues 

By  Mrj".  J.  W.  Shoem&.ker 

For  School  and  Social  Entertainment 

Entirely  new  and  original.  The  topics  have  been  arranged  on  a 
comprehensive  plan,  with  reference  to  securing  the  greatest  possi- 
ble variety,  and  the  matter  has  been  specially  prepared  by  a  corps 
of  able  writers,  their  aim  being  to  secure  loftiness  of  conception, 
purity  of  tone,  and  adaptability  to  the  needs  of  amateurs.  It  is  an 
all-round  dialogue  book,  being  suited  to  children  and  adults,  and 
to  Sunday-schools  and  day-schools.  It  is  conceded  to  be  one  of  the 
best  dialogue  books  in  print. 


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Entertainment  Books  for  Young  People 

Comic  Dialogue./ 

By  John  R.  Dennis 

This  ia  the  something  "real  funny,"  which  every  boy  and  girl 
prefers,  but  there  is  nothing  coarse  in  it.  It  is  suitable  for  school  or 
church  use  anywhere.  Tlie  dialogues  are  arranged  for  from  two  to  a 
dozen  or  more  children.  A  few,  like  "  Vililieus  "  and  "  The  Head- 
less Horseman,"  employ  music.  "Our  Lysander"  is  a  real  little 
play.  Some  ofthe  dialogues  are:  Innocents  Abroad,  Artist's  Dream, 
Aunt  Dinah  and  Columbus,  Taking  the  CeneuB,  Strictly  Couliden- 
tial,  etc. 


Humorous  Dialogues  arid  Dramas 

By  Cheurley  C.  Shoemivker 

If  there  is  anything  more  enjoyable  than  a  humorous  reading  or 
recitation  it  is  a  keen,  pointed,  humorous  dialogue.  Thecompiler, 
with  the  largest  resources  and  widest  experience  in  literature  for 
entertainment  purposes,  has  produced  one  of  the  rarest,  brightest, 
jolliest  books  of  mirth-provoking  dialogues  ever  published.  Much 
ofthe  matter  was  prepared  especially  for  this  work.  The  dialogues 
are  adapted  to  old  and  young  of  both  sexes,  and  while  often  keenly 
witty,  are  wholly  free  from  coarseness  and  vulgarity. 


Classic  Dialogues  arid  Dramas 

By  Mrj".  J.  W.  Shoemzkker 

This  unique  work  will  prove  not  only  interesting  and  profitable 
for  purposes  of  public  and  social  entertainment,  but  also  instruct- 
ive and  valuable  for  private  reading  and  study.  The  book  com- 
prises popular  scenes  judiciously  selected  from  the  plays  of  Shakes- 
peare, Sheridan,  Bulwer,  Schiller,  and  other  dramatists,  and  each 
dialogue  is  so  arranged  as  to  be  complete  in  itself.  Many  of  the 
exercises  may  be  given  as  readings  or  recitals,  and  will  prove 
acceptable  to  audiences  of  the  highest  culture  and  refinement. 


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Entertainment  Books  for  Young  People 

Sterling   Di&.lo£>ues 

By  Willia^m  M.  Clark 

The  dialogues  comprising  this  volimie  have  been  chosen  from  a 
large  store  of  materiah  The  contributions  are  from  the  pens  of 
the  most  gifted  writers  in  this  field  of  literature,  and  the  topics  are 
so  varied  and  comprehensive  that  tliey  are  readily  adapted  to  the 
needs  of  Schools,  Academies,  and  Literary  Societies.  They  are 
especially  suited  for  Social  Gatherings  and  Home  Amusement,  as 
the  staging  required  is  simple  and  easily  obtained. 


Model  Dialogues 

By  Willizwm  M.  Clark 

The  dialogues  comprising  this  collection  have  been  contributed 
by  over  thirty  of  America's  best  writers  in  this  field  of  literature. 
They  represent  every  variety  of  sentiment  and  emotion,  from  the 
extremely  humorous  to  the  pathetic.  Every  dialogue  is  full  of  life 
and  action;  the  subjects  are  well  chosen,  and  are  so  varied  as  to 
suit  all  grades  of  performers.  The  book  is  especially  adapted  for 
School  Exhibitions,  Literary  Societies,  and  Sunday-school  and 
Social  Gatherings. 


Standard  Di&.!o£(ues 

By  Rev.  Alexander  Cla>.rk,  A.  M. 

The  author's  name  is  a  guaranty  of  the  excellence  of  this  book. 
His  long  experience  as  a  lecturer  before  Teachers'  Institutes,  and 
his  close  study  of  the  teachers'  needs,  his  lofty  ideals  of  education 
and  of  life,  his  refinement  of  taste,  diversity  of  attainment,  and 
versatility  of  expression,  all  combine  to  qualify  him  in  an  eminent 
degree  for  the  preparation  of  such  a  volume.  For  both  teacher 
and  entertainer  this  book  has  special  points  of  merit,  as  the  dia- 
logues are  interesting  as  well  as  instructive. 

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Entertainment  Books  for  Vonng  People 

Schoolday  Dialogues 

By  Rev.  Alexander  Cleo-k,  A.  M. 

This  book  of  dialogues,  prepared  for  use  in  School  Enter- 
tainments, furnishes  great  diversity  of  sentiment  and  diction. 
Although  for  the  most  part  composed  of  serious  or  pathetic  subject- 
matter,  there  will  be  found  many  humorous  dialogues  and  much 
good  material  for  the  little  folks,  as  well  as  for  the  older  ones. 
The  staging  and  costuming  are  of  the  simplest  character,  and  are 
BO  fully  described  as  to  make  the  task  of  preparation  quite  easy, 
even  for  the  novice. 


Popular  Dialog'ues 

By  PhineakS  Garrett 

The  author's  large  experience  in  the  Entertainment  and  Amuse- 
ment field  has  qualified  him  for  the  preparation  ot  a  book  of 
unusual  merit.  No  werk  of  this  kind  more  fully  meets  the  popu- 
lar demand  for  interesting  and  refined  entertainment.  In  this 
collection  will  be  found  dialogues  to  suit  every  occasion,  either  for 
public  entertainment  or  for  a  social  evening  at  home.  Humor  and 
pathos  are  pleasantly  blended,  and  provision  is  made  for  the 
wants  of  the  young  and  the  old,  the  grave  and  the  gay,  the  expe- 
rienced and  the.inexperienced. 


Cxcelsxor  Dialogues 

By  Phine8k.s  Garrett 

This  book  is  composed  of  original  dialogues  and  colloquies 
designed  for  students  in  Schools  and  Academies,  and  prepared 
expressly  for  this  work  by  a  corps  of  professional  teachers  and 
writers.  Comedy  and  tragedy  are  provided  in  due  proportion, 
and  the  moral  tone  of  the  work  is  of  the  highest  order.  Teachers 
will  here  find  just  the  material  for  which  they  have  been  search- 
ing, something  with  plot  enough  to  hold  the  attention  and  that 
will  command  the  best  efforts  of  the  older  pupils. 

X   - 
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Entertainment  Books  for  Young  People 

Fancy  Drills  and  Marche»r 

By  Alice  M.   Kellogg 

Children  enjoy  drills,  and  this  is  the  most  successful  drill  book 
ever  published.  It  has  more  than  fifty  new  ideas^drills,  marches, 
motion  songs  and  action  pieces.  Among  them  are  a  Sifter  Drill, 
Ribbon  Marcli  with  Grouping  and  Posing,  Pink  Rose  Drill,  Christ- 
mas Tree  Drill,  Delsarte  Children,  Zouave  Drill,  Wreath  Drill 
and  March,  Glove  Drill,  Tambourine  Drill,  March  of  the  Red, 
White  and  Blue.  Teachers  will  be  especially  pleased  with  the 
care  given  to  the  exercises  for  the  smaller  children.  All  of  the 
drillsare  fully  illustrated. 


Idea.1  DrilU 

By  Ma>.rguerite  W.  Morton 

This  book  contains  a  collection  of  entirely  new  and  original 
drills,  into  w"hich  are  introduced  many  unique  and  effective 
features.  The  fullest  descriptions  are  given  for  the  successful  pro- 
duction of  the  drills,  and  to  this  end  nearly  100  diagrams  have 
been  inserted  showing  the  different  movements.  Everything  is 
made  so  clear  that  anyone  can  use  the  drills  without  the  slightest 
ditficulty.  Among  the  more  popular  and  pleasing  drills  are  :  The 
Brownie,  Taper,  Maypole,  Rainbow,  Dumb-bell,  Butterfly,  Sword, 
Flower,  Ring,  Scarf,  Flag,  and  Swing  Song  and  Drill. 


Eureka  Entertainments 

The  title  of  this  volume  expresses  in  a  nutshell  the  character  of 
its  contents.  The  weary  searcher  after  material  for  any  kind  of 
entertainment  will,  upon  examination  of  this  book,  at  once 
exclaim,  "I  have  found  it."  Here  is  just  what  is  wanted  for  use 
in  day-school,  Sunday-school,  at  church  socials,  teas,  and  other 
festivals,  for  parlor  or  tireside  amusement,  in  fact,  for  all  kinds  of 
school  or  home,  public  or  private  entertainments.  The  work  is 
characterized  by  freshness  and  originalitv  throughout. 


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Entertainment  Sooks  for  Vonng  PeopH 

Special  Day  Exercise»r 

By  Amos  M.  Kellogg 

Almost  every  week  in  the  school  year  has  its  birthday  of  a 
national  hero  or  a  great  writer.  Washington,  Michael  Angelo, 
Shakespeare,  Longfellow,  Holmes,  Browning  and  Emerson  are 
among  those  the  children  learn  to  know  from  this  hook.  The  holi. 
days,  Easter,  Christmas,  Thanksgiving,  Memorial  Day  are  not  forr 
gotten ;  and  in  between  are  many  happy  suggestions  for  tree  plau^ 
ing,  for  bird  and  flower  lessons,, and  debates. 


Christmas  Selections 

By  Rosamond  Livingstone  McN&.ught 

For  Readings  and  Recitations 
Sunday  schools,  day  schools,  the  home  circle,  all  demand  ma- 
terial for  Christmas  entertainments,  and  all  want  something  new 
and  appropriate.  This  book  contains  jnst  what  is  wanted.  Every 
piece  is  absolntely  new,  not  a  single  one  having  previously  been 
published  in  any  book.  It  contains  recitations,  in  prose  and 
poetry,  for  every  conceivable  kind  of  public  or  private  entertaiu* 
ment  at  Christmas  time. 


Holiday  Selections 

By  Sau-a  Sigourney  Rice 

For  Readings  and  Recitations 
The  selections  in  this  volume  are  adapted  to  all  the  different 
holidays  of  the  year  and  are  clussiiied  accordingly.  Fully  half  of 
the  pieces  are  for  Christmas,  but  ample  i)rovision  is  also  made  for 
New  Year's,  St.  Valentine's  Day,  Washington's  Birthday,  Easter, 
Arbor  Day,  Decoration  Day,  Fourth  of  July,  and  Thanksgiving. 
The  pieces  are  unusually  bright,  and  the  variety  under  each  holi- 
day Avill  aflbrd  the  fullest  opportunity  for  a  satisfactory  choice; 
the  older  students  and  the  little  ones  alike  will  fiud  SOtuetlliug 
■uited  to  theii  difierent  degrees  of  ability. 


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Entertainment  Books  for  Vonng  People 

Holiday  Entertainments 

By  Chswrles  C.  Shoemaker 

Absolutely  new  and  original.  There  are  few  things  more  popu- 
lar during  the  holiday  season  than  Entertainments  and  Exhibi- 
tions, and  there  is  scarcely  anything  move  difficult  to  procure  thau 
new  and  meritorious  material  appropriate  for  such  occasions 
This  book  is  made  up  of  short  dramas,  dialogues,  tableaux, 
recitations,  etc.,  introducing  many  novel  features  that  give  the 
spice  and  sparkle  so  desirable  for  such  occasions.  It  is  adapted  to 
the  full  round  of  holidays,  containing  features  especially  prepared 
for  Christmas,  New  Year's,  Washington's  Birthday,  Easter,  Deco- 
ration Day,  Fourth  of  July,  and  Thanksgiving. 

Spring  and  Summer  School 
Celebrations 

By  Alice  M.  Kellogg 
This  book  shows  how  to  capture  "all  outdoors"  for  the  school 
room.  Every  warm  Aveather  holiday,  including  ilay  Day, 
Memorial  Day,  Closing  Day,  is  represented ;  for  each  the  book 
offers  from  ten  to  thirty  new  suggestions.  Tableaux,  pantomimes, 
recitations,  marches,  drills,  songs  and  special  programs,  provide 
exactly  the  right  kind  of  material  for  Spring  exercises  of  any  sort. 
The  drills  and  action  pieces  are  fully  illustrated.  Everything  in 
the  book  has  been  esnecially  edited  and  arranged  for  it. 

Select  Speeches  for  Declamation 

By  John  H.  Bechtel 

This  book  contains  a  large  number  of  short  prose  pieces 
chosen  from  the  leading  writers  and  speakers  of  all  ages  and 
nations,  and  admirably  adapted  for  use  by  college  men.  Only  the 
very  best,  from  a  large  store  of  t;hoice  material,  was  selected  for 
this  work.  The  names  of  Demosthenes,  Livy,  Kossuth,  Bona- 
parte, Chatham,  Burke,  Macaulay,  Hugo,  Gladstone,  Washington, 
Jefferson,  Garfield,  Harrison,  Webster,  Everett,  Phillips,  Curtis, 
Blaine,  Beecher,  Grady,  Cleveland,  McKinley,  and  Depew  may 
serve  to  sjiggest  the  standard  of  the  selections. 

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Mntertainment  Books  for  Vonng  People 

Temperance  Selections 

By  John  H.   Bechtel 

For  Readings  and  Recitations 
These  selections  have  been  taken  from  the  utterances  of  pulpit 
orators,  from  the  speeches  of  political  leaders,  and  from  the  pens 
of  gifted  poets.  They  depict  the  life  of  the  drunkard,  point  out 
the  first  beginnings  of  vice,  and  illustrate  the  growth  of  the  habit 
as  one  cup  after  another  is  sipped  amid  the  pleasures  and  gayeties 
of  social  life.  This  volume  appeals  to  humaa  intelligence,  and 
speaks  words  of  truth  and^wisdom  that  cannot  be  gainsaid. 

Sunday-School  Selections 

By  John  H.  Bechtel 

For  Readings  and  Recitations 
This  volume  contains  about  150  selections  of  unusual  merit. 
Among  them  something  will  be  found  adapted  to  every  occasion 
a  id  condition  where  a  choice  reading  or  recitation  may  be  wanted. 
Suitable  provision  has  been  made  for  the  Church  Social,  the  Sun- 
day-school Concert,  Teachers'  Gatherings,  Christian  Endeavor 
Societies,  Anniversary  occasions,  and  every  assemblage  of  a  relig- 
ious or  spiritual  character.  Besides  its  value  for  readings  and 
recitations,  the  pastor  will  find  much  in  it  to  adorn  his  sermon, 
and  the  superintendent  points  by  which  to  illustrate  the  Sunday- 
Bchool  lesson. 

Sunday-School  Entertainments 

All  new  and  original.  The  demand  for  a  book  of  pleasing  and 
appropriate  Sunday-school  entertainments  is  here  supplied.  The 
articles  are  largely  in  the  nature  of  dialogues,  tableaux,  recita- 
tions, concert  pieces,  motion  songs,  dramatized  Bible  stories,  and 
responsive  exercises,  all  based  upon  or  illustrating  some  Biblical 
truth.  Special  care  has  been  taken  to  make  provision  for  such 
occasions  as  Christmas,  New  Year's,  Easter,  Thanksgiving,  and 
the  full  round  of  celebrations,  so  that  no  time  or  season  is  with- 
out a  subipct. 

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Entertainment  Books  for  Young  Peoplm 

Money   M&.kin^   Entertainments 

By  Lizzie  J.  Rook  and  Mrs.  E.  J.  H.  Goodfellow 

There  is  no  better  way  to  raise  money  for  church,  school,  or  be« 
nevolent  purposes  tliau  by  means  of  eutertaiuments.  This  unique 
volume  contains  a  great  abundance  of  new  and  original  material 
especially  prepared  for  such  occasions  bj'  two  writers  of  wide  ex- 
perience in  this  line  of  work.  In  addition  to  the  money  making 
features  there  is  also  a  large  variety  of  eutertaiumeuts  and  socials 
for  home  use. 


Tableaux,  Char&des,  anb  Pantomimes 

This  attractive  volume  is  adapted  alike  to  Parlor  lOntertaiu- 
meiits,  School  and  Church  P'xhibitions,  and  for  use  on  the  Amateur 
Stage.  The  department  of  Tableaux  is  unusually  complete.  Only 
such  scenes  as  can  be  produced  with  the  smallest  number  of 
auxiliaries  have  been  selected.  Tableaux,  with  readings  from 
standard  authors,  form  a  very  attractive  feature,  as  do  also  the 
statuary  scenes.  The  volume  has  recently  been  enlarged  by  the 
addition  of  a  number  of  new  and  original  charades,  which  add 
greatly^to  tlje  attractiveness  of  the  hook. 


School  and  Parlor  Comedies 

By  B.  L.  C.  Griffith 

The  dialogue  is  so  spirited  that  the  lines  almost  play  themselves, 
80  that  the  plays  are  sure  to  be  acceptable  even  in  the  hands  of 
only  fairly  competent  performers.  The  situations  are  ingenious, 
and  the  plots  are  such  as  command  the  attention  of  an  audience  at 
the  outset  and  hold  it  until  the  last  line  is  given.  The  plays  differ 
widely  in  character,  thus  affording  an  unusual  variety.  The 
scenery  required  in  any  instance  is  not  difficult  and  may  be  easily 
armnged  in  the  class  room  or  io  the  private  parlor. 


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'  Bntertainment  Sooks  for  Vonng  People 

Monologues  and  Novelties 

By  B.  L.  C.  Griffith 

In  addition  to  the  large  number  of  new  and  original  monologues 
in  this  book,  it  contains  also  a  large  collection  of  other  features— 
6uch,  for  instance,  as  a  Shadow  Pantomime,  a  Chinese  Wedding, 
a  Recitation  with  Lesson  Help,  a  Play,  a  Monologue  in  Panto- 
mime, etc.  The  entertainments  vary  in  length  from  five  to 
twenty-five  minutes,  and  are  all  of  a  high  order  of  excellence.  The 
book  is  brim  full  of  the  choicest  and  most  artistic  forms  of  enter" 
tainmeut. 


Sketches,  Skits  and  Stunts 

By  John  T.  Mclntyre 
Good  vaudeville  material,  amateur  or  professional,  is  hard  to 
get.  This  book  contains  an  abundance  of  the  best  for  both 
classes,  all  written  to  order  by  one  who  knows  how  to  do  it  well. 
There  are  jokes,  monologues,  dialogues,  stories,  songs,  sketches, 
parodies,  short  farces,  and  talking  acts  of  the  rapid-fire  variety, 
all  constructed  for  strictly  laughing  purposes. 


How  to  Become  a  Public  Speaker 

By  William  Pittenger 
This  work  shows  in  a  simple  and  concise  way  how  any  person 
of  ordinary  perseverance  and  good  common  sense  may  become  a 
ready  and  effective  public  speaker.  He  is  here  directed  how  to 
gather  thoughts,  how  to  arrange  them  to  the  best  advantage,  and 
how  to  form  clear  outlines.  He  is  then  told  how  to  overcome 
timidity,  how  to  secure  ease  and  fluency  of  language,  and  how  to 
acquire  such  a  mastery  of  the  arts  of  the  orator  as  will  give  him 
confidence  and  power. 


THE     PENN      PUBLISHING      COMPANY 
925*27   FILBERT  STREFT    PHILAr)F,LPHIA 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


NOV  2  4  194t 

OCT  V       ■ 

JAN  12 

dAN  2^  194S 
•JUL  2  3  1S45 

lUL  3  I  1941    ' 

,2  aJ.?5i 


a?R  3  0 196i 


LD    URL 

lUN    5  1965 


4  4-9 


DEC 


LD""URL 


7„4     ..  -4-3 


PM 
lO 


o: 


MOV  181952 


Form  L-0 
20»l-I2,'3ni.-BSG) 


/^ 


PM 


3  1158  00023  4137 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  409  693    9 


IT> 


fTsomffi* 


ill 


